


花見

by Xairathan



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: OkiNobu-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-14 10:41:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 72,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20599421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xairathan/pseuds/Xairathan
Summary: The remnants of a Holy Grail call up Servants from the land it's found itself bound to. Locked in an unending, incomplete war without Masters, the Sakura Saber must find meaning in the fighting, or else let herself be consumed by it.





	1. 1 - 匂桜

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to cheinsaw, Amelia, Lethe, and Wesakechak for betaing and riding my ass to write this dang thing.  
...also I may have accidentally hit post too early no one saw that, okay?

Okita opens her eyes to a mess of strident light and something sharp tickling her skin. She grasps for the last thing she remembers- the sound of falling water; a stuffy room filled with air as stagnant and lifeless as she was. The tightness in her chest reveals itself as Okita sits up, head breaching the surface of a sea of swaying grass. Her eyes settle upon the river rippling just beyond it, and years of experience reassert themselves. Where there’s flowing water, there will eventually be people, and if she wants to know where she is, all she’ll need to do is follow the river downstream.

Okita walks out purposefully, wading in until she’s hidden amidst the reeds. There’s no telling who she might run into on her way, after all. She tries to convince herself that the sensation of cool water sliding over her skin is a secondary concern, and starts down the river, its gentle current buffeting her shins and carrying her stride.

Before long, the grass that lines both sides of the river turns into a tightly bunched tangle of trees, blotting out the skyline and filling the river with leaves, fallen and reflected. The water is deeper here, laced with treacherous eddies that threaten to turn an ankle between two stones or pull her out into the center, where her feet will no longer touch the bottom and it’ll be easy to sweep her away.

A stone rolls beneath Okita’s sandal, pitching her forward. She catches herself before she can tumble into the river, water splashing up and drenching the front of her hakama up to her waist. Just as she thinks it was luck that kept her chest from getting wet and sparing her a few hours of bloody coughing, there’s a rustling from the treeline, and Okita glimpses something moving in the brush. Her hand darts to the hilt of her katana, her breaths slowing. This is what she lives for: the heady rush of adrenaline that signals the beginning of combat, the reliable weight of her sword in her hand and the bite of it sliding through heavy flesh.

A girl’s head pops out from between the trees. The rest of her comes into view soon after: an unfamiliar black coat and matching slacks- Western, Okita notes with distaste- golden greaves, and a red cape that flows over her shoulders, whipping with the wind like fire. A katana hangs loosely from her belt, still sheathed, and the girl in red seems to consider Okita for a long while before walking towards her and extending a hand.

“So you’re the new one!” It’s a statement, not a hint of doubt in her tone. “I’ve been looking for you!”

“Why would anyone be looking for me?” Okita shoots back. “I don’t recognize you.”

The girl laughs, throwing her head back and showing teeth. “I hope you don’t!” she says, coming up to the riverbank. “Hey, isn’t it cold in there? Aren’t you cold?”

“Not particularly.” Yes, the water is chilly, but Okita will take that any day over the stifling weight of a blanket and the waking rumbles of the sickness in her chest. “Do you care to explain yourself?”

“Ah, it’s kind of a long…” the girl trails off, running a gloved hand through her long hair. “Okay, let me see. What’s the last thing you remember before waking up?”

“That’s easy,” Okita scoffs. “I was at home. I was in my room, and I-” The words catch in her throat, a chill passing over her that makes the river feel like a warm bath. She remembers struggling to breathe, telling herself that a nap would make herself feel better, knowing all the while that she was a horrible liar, much less to herself. “What are you saying?”

“Wow, you’re taking it better than everyone else. Usually, we have to go through this whole ‘I’m not dead’ screaming session, and then someone starts fighting someone…”

“Will you spit it out already!” Okita’s hand shakes against her sword, heart pounding. No, that isn’t right. She needs to be calm, she can’t let herself be caught off guard.

“I’m saying that you’re dead,” the girl tells her. “And I’m dead, too! Oh, and we don’t go by real names around here unless you really trust someone, so you can just call me… yeah, I guess I’m a Demon!”

“A… Demon,” Okita sighs. As far as her dreams go, this has to be one of the weirdest. But the river feels real, and if this were some form of afterlife, she’d have met Hijikata or Saitou or one of the other Shinsengumi here, rather than this girl calling herself a demon (she hopes). “Okay, then you can call me…” There are words coming up, from where she doesn’t know, but they feel _ right _ leaving her mouth. “Sakura Saber.”

“Ah, giving me your class already?” The girl puts a finger to her lips, seemingly lost in thought. “We haven’t had one of those in a while, since the Saber of Flowers came. Well, I guess I’ll make it even and tell you mine, then!”

“Tell me wha-” Okita begins to say, and is met by the barrel of a rifle pointed straight at her face, so close that she can see the spirals engraved in the metal. It reeks of powder and iron: not the clean smell of oil and crushed stone mixing with folded steel that Okita is so used to, but of blackened and twisted metal, burned beyond recognition so as to smell like blood. Her body goes rigid and chest seizes; the taste of iron hits her tongue, and at any moment she’ll be down in the river, coughing-

“Wow, you didn’t even flinch!” The girl is laughing again, but this time it sounds gentler, genuinely impressed. She opens her hand, and rather than falling, the rifle she’d held dissipates with a spray of golden sparks. “Hey, if you’ve got that level of confidence in you, then you should join up with my side! Demon Archer and Sakura Saber, doesn’t that sound cool?”

“I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” Okita mutters.

“Why don’t you come out of there and I’ll explain everything to you?” Archer beams at her, extending her hand again. “Our base is back that way, unless you want to keep going and walk straight into the enemy camp.”

“And let me guess, they’re all alive?”

“What? No, they’re dead, too! I’m pretty sure all of us are dead. I wasn’t really listening when I got everything explained to me that first time around.”

“You weren’t listening, and you’re still going to explain this to me?”

“I listened the second time!” Archer protests. She grabs for Okita’s wrist as Okita clambers out, her grip surprisingly strong for such small hands. Archer hauls Okita out below the trees, folding her arms over her chest. “Okay, let me see if I remember. You and I and everyone else, we’re something called a Heroic Spirit! It means we did something important in our lives, or something. Right now, we’re here because a bunch of people fought over something called the Holy Grail, and they fought so hard that some of the energy got loose and went into the earth and now it’s calling to us! So now we’re here, and the Grail will keep calling us back until there’s nothing left of us to call back-”

“So what, we’re fighting until we forget who we are?”

“Oh, not like that!” Archer points to her chest, and for a moment, Okita glimpses incomprehensible lines of text weaving over her body, hundreds of years of stories wound around and in her flesh, most of them speaking of the same thing, some so vastly different that it’s obvious to Okita that they had to have come from someplace else. “See, we’re made up of something called a Saint Graph! When we kill another of our kind, we can steal some of it. That’s how we get more power and keep ourselves alive, but once you lose too much of yourself, you die for real. That’s what happened to T- to the Caster that you’re replacing. She got jumped last night and there wasn’t enough of her to bring back.”

Archer pauses- not for breath; she’s got too much of it, but out of some measure of respect that Okita remembers from her time with the Shinsengumi- and then she pushes on. “That’s basically it. There’s only twelve of us at one time, and we try and stay alive for as long as we want. The only rule is that we can’t go off and try to change history. If we do that, the Grail says that something bigger than all of us will come and put a stop to it, so just don’t do it.”

“Has anyone tried doing that?” Okita asks. “Changing history.”

“I think someone did, way back at the start.” Archer’s face twists thoughtfully. “Only Caster was around for that long, and she says that everyone else just took them apart so they wouldn’t be able to cause trouble again. I wouldn’t try it if I were you.” Archer smiles at her, eyes flicking up and down. “I like you too much to want to have to come after you.”

“We just met,” Okita says flatly.

“So we did!” Archer’s fingers wind around her arm again, pulling her gently into the forest. “Now let’s get out of the open before we get found- I’m pretty sure the other guys would be looking for you, too. Sucks to be them, I found you first!”

Okita just nods, letting Archer pull her along, making quiet grunts of affirmation at every pause in Archer’s ranting. Her mind is concentrated, as it had been before, on the sounds of the forest around them and the crunch of leaves beneath their feet. There’s no sign that the enemy that Archer spoke about is following them, no movement of the wind through the trees that tells her something is coming. There’s only the constant sound of Archer’s voice, the steady beating of her heart accompanying her own thoughts, and an unfamiliar breeze that tells Okita that whatever world she has awakened in, it is no longer hers.

* * *

The base, as Archer calls it, is really just a big house with a wide courtyard sitting atop a hill. There’s a village within sight to the west, far enough away to make visiting a chore, but not completely out of reach. “We’ve got a bunch of places like this,” Archer says to her as they mount the final steps. “Our old Caster helped us with them. She enchanted a bunch of places so the locals think they’re haunted and never set foot here, so we can get away with staying here.”

“What a convenient Caster,” Okita murmurs in response.

“She really was.”

“What if you don’t have a place to stay?”

“Well, then you just have to make do with what you’ve got!” Archer gestures to her cape, flicking the edge dramatically to catch the wind. “I’ve got this, so I can sleep pretty much anywhere I want! You might need some help, though.”

“If we’re… Heroic Spirits, why do we even need to sleep?” Okita asks. “I’m assuming we don’t need to eat, since we’ve been walking for a few hours and I’m not hungry, or even tired.”

“Ah, it’s for the Grail,” Archer says. “For some reason, if we die and it has to recall us, it does it in the place we last fell asleep. Everyone tries to get a nap in every few days or so just to be safe. Hey, Okki, I’m back!”

It’s a stroke of luck that Archer doesn’t see how Okita’s head jerks around, chasing the apparent sound of her name. Archer’s hand, waving in an exaggerated arc, is answered by a reciprocal wave from a pink-clad girl that Okita hadn’t seen before, sitting cross-legged atop the stone wall surrounding the massive wooden house. “She’s our home guard,” Archer tells Okita. “She’s completely useless on the battlefield, but give her a place to settle down in and call her own, and she can be a complete nightmare. We’ll be safe here, thanks to her.”

“Her name is Okki?”

“Nah, that’s just what Saber of Flowers calls her, so it sticks.” Archer scratches her ear thoughtlessly, leading the way through the open gates and into the main courtyard. “I think they must know each other from somewhere, but I never really asked how. I don’t think anyone’s out, so I should be able to get you introduced to everyone…”

“Oh, it’s Archer. Back already?” A man with jagged silver hair pokes his head out from the closest building, a small structure with a wide set of sliding doors that open into the courtyard. The sound of combat echoes from within, the ringing of wood on wood that fades into stillness as soon as the man speaks. “And you’ve brought…?”

“This is- well, she’s on our side, so we can tell her our classes, right? I’ve already said mine.”

“Might as well,” Okki says, delicately hopping her way along the walls and landing softly on the other side of the open clearing. “I’m Okki, Assassin. I don’t have a cool name like everyone else, thanks to Saber of Flowers.”

“Hey, it’s more personal that way!” Two more people walk out from the training room, weapons held loosely in sweaty palms. The taller of them, a woman, braces two short katana over her shoulders and grins at Okki, jabbing a wooden blade over at her companion. “Besides, we already have an Assassin.”

“And you call me Evil Wind, so the title of Assassin is open for the taking,” the other replies. His red hair drapes over his eyes, and yet Okita can feel herself being scrutinized carefully, perhaps being sized as a target for the knives being spun around in the Assassin’s hand. “This is Caster’s replacement?”

“Yeah, another Saber. Sakura Saber.” Archer gestures to the sheathed blade at Okita’s side, and then to her pink kimono, as if that’s all the explanation her teammates need.

“It’s a good thing the others didn’t find her first, then. Good job, Archer.” The silver-haired man walks up to Okita, the sleeves of his red cloak flowing as he extends his hand to her. “Ruler of Rebellion, and de facto leader of this team as of yesterday. Nice to have you.”

“You said I’m replacing a Caster?” Okita says. “But I’m a Saber.”

“Yeah, the Grail just summons whoever it feels like, we think,” Archer says with a shrug. “We haven’t figured out a pattern to it yet. The other team got a Caster last time, even though I haven’t seen him yet. He’s the one who helped take our Caster out, or that’s what we think based on what we found. Hey, is Berserker still out looking?”

“He’ll be back soon,” Ruler says. “I’ll tell him we found the new Heroic Spirit first when he comes home. I’m sure he’ll be happy.”

“This team has seven,” Okita interrupts quietly. “Is that why everyone was so intent on finding me first?”

“Yep! Our team’s had the advantage for the past few months, now.” The other Saber twirls her blades around, flicks them out to her sides. “I bet the other team thought they’d have the upper hand if they could get to you, but too bad for them, our Archer knows this place like the back of her hand. Well, nice to meet you, Sakura Saber.”

Saber of Flowers turns and heads back into the training room with a casual wave of her swords, followed by Evil Wind, who hardly hesitates before throwing a knife in Saber’s direction. Okita sees her counterpart deflect the projectile with a swat of her blade, and the two of them disappear from sight, their departure marked by their sparring weapons ringing against each other and the faint sounds of Saber’s yells.

“I’ll make sure they don’t kill each other,” Ruler sighs, also heading back into the building. “Archer, show Sakura Saber around the rest of the place. She can have my old room. I’ve already moved my things out.”

“Like you had anything in the first place,” Archer laughs. “Alright, you’ve met everyone except Demon Berserker now. Yeah, that’s about it! Saber of Flowers will probably challenge you to a match before the week is over. We don’t really have much to do aside from fighting and planning, so feel free to kill the time however you want.”

“Do you have a storage room?” Okita asks, fingers winding and unwinding around the scabbard of her katana. Her fall into the river might have gotten water inside it, and the last thing she needs is her blade beginning to rust on an eternal battlefield. “Someplace you keep your supplies?”

“Uhh, do we have one…?” Archer scratches her head, spinning in a tight circle. “Why, what’re you looking for?”

“Choji oil and powdered stone.” The list comes to Okita’s tongue like it’s second nature, something as familiar to her as the weight of her sword in hand. “And rice paper.”

“Oh, for _ that. _” Archer ponders the question for a moment more, muttering something to herself. “Your best bet is waiting for Berserker to get back, I think. He’s got a bunch of stuff like that in his room, but we don’t really take each others’ things, you know? It’s just how we are.”

“How considerate,” Okita mutters dryly. “Wouldn’t someone like you get bored of this quickly?”

“Oh, I do!” Archer laughs and gestures at her cape, pulling at a corner and bringing it up for Okita to see. “That’s why I made this in my spare time! I could make one for you, if you want!”

“I’d rather you make me a spare hakama,” Okita replies. “I only have the one.”

“Don’t worry about that!” Another grin, another wave of Archer’s hand. “Your clothes are tied to your Saint Graph, so you don’t have to wash them or repair them, as long as you’ve got enough energy. Probably for the best, since we get them ripped up all the time. Caster said that if you wore something for long enough, it would stick to your Saint Graph, so don’t go stealing my cape when you change your mind, okay?”

“Like I would ever want something as tacky,” Okita scoffs. “Where’s Berserker’s room? I’ll wait for him there.”

“Out back by the rock path,” Archer says, pointing the way. “Okki hangs out back there sometimes, so you could ask her if you want. I don’t think she even has a weapon, though.”

“How does she defend this place without a weapon?”

“Ah, she makes do. I’d say I hope you don’t have to see it, but given that the other guys will try and attack once they figure out we have you, you probably will! Hah!”

Their conversation has led them around the side of the complex to an open-aired hallway lined with doors: some have symbols painted on them, signaling their owner, while others stand simply closed, that the sole indication that someone might be living inside. “You’re the one in the middle on the left,” Archer says. “That used to be Ruler’s room, but he’s got Caster’s now, so we’ve got one open. Kitchen’s out front by the training room, bath is in the back next to Berserker’s room- actually, maybe his room is the storage closet, now that I think about it- and my room’s down at the end, if you ever need me!”

Okita turns her head, taking in the hastily-inked motif of flames racing up either side of the sliding door, the paper soaked through in a vivid red that reminds Okita more of blood than the element it’s meant to evoke. “I would never have guessed.”

“Well, if that’s it, I’m gonna go! Bye, Saber!” Archer dances backwards, her ever-present smile accompanied by what might be a wink, and vanishes through the door to her room with a motion that suggests she’s dived through onto a futon more times than actually walking in.

The end of the hallway loops around to the back, just as Archer had suggested. Okki isn’t there, but a half-shredded straw man rustles a feeble greeting to Okita, its lopped-off arms moving with the changing wind. A well-worn groove along the center marks where hundreds of blade strikes have chipped a path through the dried strands- Berserker’s work, Okita guesses. Archer seems to prefer rifles to swords as far as her not knowing where the cleaning materials is concerned, and Saber of Flowers is content to spar with her companions. Taking a long breath, Okita draws her sword, holding it in the ready position. Her style of swordsmanship deals more with thrusts, so hopefully Berserker won’t mind a few extra dents in his already well worn training dummy.

A thrust to begin with, targeting the chest. Then a quick trio of steps to gain the ground behind the opponent, followed by an upward slash. Bring the sword back down, stepping forward, and move to the front before the opponent can turn back. A final pair of swings, followed by a thrust. That’s Okita’s standard rotation of movements, practiced enough to be embedded into her soul, ready to be called to the battlefield at a moment’s notice. Again- the sword feels heavier than it should, and her feet move too slowly to be called ready for combat. Again- the point of her sword doesn’t cut the way it should, and it can only be a fault in her swing. Again- her balance is off when she throws the blade forward, and her weight shifts too far from her center. Again-

“So, you’re the one making all the ruckus.”

The voice rumbling through the unkempt garden touches a familiar note, ringing in Okita’s mind. She knows who the Berserker will be even before she turns to face him, can imagine the look on his face. She’s not wrong: the Vice-Commander of the Shinsengumi is standing before her, arms folded over his coat, its buttons open to the waist. The scowl on his face, equal parts smile and grimace, tells Okita all she needs to know.

“How long were you watching?” she asks, composure breaking. There’s no use in using her deeper voice with Hijikata, who’s known her since long before the pretenses of seriousness materialized in battle as blood on her blade and a hunger for it in her tone.

“I just got back. We may talk freely, First Captain. I told Assassin to leave us be.”

“You’re really Hijikata?” Okita fumbles with the scabbard, managing to sheathe her blade after a few tries. “You’re- wait, that means you’re dead!”

“Yes. Not long after you, if I’m correct.” Hijikata tugs at the edges of his sleeves, and Okita sees the hints of darker patches hidden in the fabric, freshly wet. “The Caster that we lost said that this time period is a little after our own, and that most likely, the Grail called to us because we were so recently killed.”

“Is that supposed to mean that we’re lucky?”

“Make of it what you will. I’ll forgive you for not wearing the haori this time, Souji. It’s better that you don’t, at least until you’re sure the other team knows your identity.”

“They haven’t guessed yours?”

“How could they?” Hijikata bares his teeth, the maddened grin of a wolf on the hunt. “None of them knew me in life, and I don’t use anything but my sword so I’m not given away. Everyone on this battlefield knows me as Demon Berserker, and I’ll keep it that way as long as I can.”

“A Demon Archer and a Demon Berserker on the same team,” Okita muses. “Must be scary.”

“The other team is nothing to laugh at.” Hijikata gestures to his side, where a white bandage barely peeks out from under his coat. “I encountered their Rider yesterday as I was returning. She took a bit out of me.” His grin widens, and something foreign to Okita flashes in his eyes. “But I took more.”

“What’s the point of all this, Hijikata? Just to win?”

“Enjoy yourself,” Hijikata laughs. “This is the kind of fighting that we would have appreciated in our day- hand to hand, face to face combat. Even the Casters meet us in the open field sometimes- unless you count Demon Archer. All she uses are those guns.”

“Demon Archer is the one who found me.”

“Oh?” Hijikata’s expression sours instantly, a change so sudden that Okita can’t help herself, stifling a laugh. “Even if she’s done me a favor, I’m not going to dignify her by speaking with her. Souji! Here’s your first order on this battlefield. Go tell the Demon Archer that the Demon Berserker expresses his thanks. Don’t be too direct about it, or you’ll have to answer for it! When you’re done, we’re going to go over your form again. You’ve deteriorated!”

“Understood!” Okita inclines her head, holding the pose for a moment before nearly skipping back towards the main building. Who cares if Hijikata sees- she’ll handle the consequences for that later; for now, she revels in the thought that Hijikata, the one person she would unequivocally trust with her life on the battlefield, is _ here_.

Lost in thought, Okita goes past the small recess in the wall that marks the start of the hallway, and that’s when it happens. She feels her chest tightening a moment before the sting of iron hits her tongue, barely managing to mask her coughs as her hands clamp tightly over her mouth, eyes flying up to see if anyone’s noticed. Hijikata is too far to have heard her, but an open window on the side of the building tells her she’s near the Demon Archer’s room, and past the blurred outline of her hand, speckled with dots of bright crimson, she thinks she sees Archer’s head snap up, hunting for the source of that sound.

Okita freezes in the sunlight, eyes fixed on Archer’s window, waiting for the inevitable peal of Archer’s voice to ring out in her direction, for the torrent of questions she knows she’ll be asked. But, it turns out she was wrong. Demon Archer doesn’t look at her, her gaze never venturing near the window at all. She remains seated in her room, arms moving in long, sweeping motions, continuing her work as if nothing has happened. As far as Okita is concerned, nothing did.

* * *

Archer is reading a book, and the sight is such a foreign one to Okita that she briefly forgets to scold Archer for putting her boots up on their sole shared kitchen table.

“What are you doing?” Okita demands, walking closer. Archer doesn’t look up at her and turns another page, rubbing the paper curiously against the texture of her gloves.

“What does it look like?” Archer retorts, rolling her shoulders. The cover of the book lifts off Archer’s thigh for the briefest of moments, casual yet calculated.

“A history book?”

“Yeah, duh. You won’t tell anyone, right? Well, I guess you can, but I think it’ll piss them off.” Archer chuckles and goes back to the idle turning of pages.

“Where did you get it from?”

“Took it from one of the towns near an old base. Hey, don’t look at me like that!”

“You stole it.”

“I’ll give it back, if it bothers you that much!” Archer snaps the book shut and tosses it aside, grinning up at Okita. “Besides, don’t you want to know who everyone on this team is?”

“You think you’ve got it all figured out?”

“I know I do! Well, besides Okki. She’s a bit weird…” Archer fiddles with her hair, twirling it around her fingers. “She probably got called here because of Musashi- I mean, Saber of Flowers. That’s my best guess. Everyone else someone from the past. Evil Wind is Fuuma Kotarou, Ruler is Amakusa Shirou, and Demon Berserker is Hijikata Toshizou.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because I’m never wrong!” Archer’s smile broadens, and she gestures at herself. “And then there’s me. Can you guess who I am?”

“Whoever the most annoying person in history is?”

“Japanese history,” Archer says. “That’s the other thing. We’re all from around here. I guess it has to do something with the current Grail’s limitations.”

“Right,” Okita says. Her hands wind themselves in the fabric of her kimono, fiddling with the edges. “And do you have a guess for me?”

“Well, you just got here.” Archer gestures at the book, her open palm flicking itself into the air in an approximation of a lazy shrug. “Give me another week to get back to you.”

“And you’re going to leave me hanging without a hint as to your identity?”

“Oh, you really want to know that badly?” Archer laughs, long and throaty, and flashes Okita another smile. “If that’s the case, I’ll arrange to give you a hint.”

“You can’t just give me one now?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Archer hops up from her seat, spinning on her heels and dancing a half-circle around Okita. “Hmm, I’ll give it to you soon, promise!”

“I don’t know why I bother with you sometimes,” Okita sighs. Now it occurs to her that maybe all her run-ins with Archer in the past week haven’t been coincidences at all, and her mind is drawn back to the red staining the inside of her scarf, the red of Archer’s eyes as they follow her every movement closely.

“Simple!” Archer laughs. “It’s ‘cause unless you want to be stuck dealing with that stuffy Berserker, I’m all you’ve got!”

“I’m holding you to what you said,” Okita says, stepping away and rummaging through one of the nearby cabinets. “About giving me a hint, that is.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll do it!” Archer prances forward, standing on the tips of her toes to crane her neck over Okita’s shoulder. “What’re you after?”

“Berserker sent me to get some pickled-”

Okita hasn’t even finished her sentence before Archer turns tail, her cape smacking into Okita’s side, fleeing the kitchen. A moment later, Hijikata’s shadow fills the entryway and he places his hand against the top of the doorframe, leaning in.

“Was Archer bothering you?” he rumbles, glancing around the room. The table where Archer was sitting is bare, Okita notices, and in response, Okita holds up the jar of pickled radishes she was sent to get.

“Ah, good.” Hijikata smiles- a rare sight, and somehow more common these days- and beckons to Okita. “Come. We’ll have our snack and get back to training.”

“Right!” Okita shuts the cabinet door and follows after Hijikata, their sandals crunching a steady cadence in the gravel path. Okita smiles, and that’s another memory tucked away to join the others, a steady entanglement of old and new, as comforting to Okita as it is strange.

* * *

A fragile peace does not last for long. Okita knows this well enough, and yet it’s still a surprise to her when Okki sounds the alarm from her perch atop the outer wall, calling for a Saber of Flowers that still hasn’t returned from her mission. She and the other Assassin are gone, trying to chase down the elusive Assassin from the other team that’s been lurking a half-day’s journey from their base, and that must be why the enemy Rider is here.

“She went that way!” Okki says, pointing out into the forested hills. Archer leaps over the wall, summoning rifles to her hands, and launches a volley of shots into the trees.

“Tch,” she grunts, hopping off the tiles and onto a nearby branch. “She’s gotten better at dodging.”

“How fast is she?” Okita asks, jumping up to join Archer.

“Faster than me,” Archer snaps her arm out, calling another line of rifles, which fire blindly into the dense underbrush. “I used to be able to get hits on her just by the sheer number of shots, but she must’ve finally learned how to shake me. Evil Wind can usually get her, but he’s no good in close quarters, and everyone else is too slow.”

“I’ll get her.”

“Hey, Saber-”

Okita darts forward into the treeline, leaving Archer behind with two quick jumps. She can hear Archer fumbling after her, lacking the finesse to traverse the uneven terrain with little more than an all-out sprint, already hindered by her ridiculous coat and cape. The enemy Rider is only just ahead of her- a few more jumps, and Okita will be in a position to overtake her. Her hand closes tightly around the hilt of her katana, the vast forest before her narrowing into a pinprick of trees and branches which Rider will be on the other side of. There’s just enough time for Okita to remind herself to breathe slowly, fighting back the adrenaline clouding her senses.

Leaves rustle to her left, and Okita jumps away as a sword swipes through the space she’d just occupied, stopping inches before making contact with the tree. The enemy Rider surveys Okita with eyes rimmed in painted red, a single moment of stillness before she’s upon Okita, blade swinging at her from all sides. Okita gives ground as often as she takes it, jabbing her sword forward into the moments between attacks, when Rider adjusts her grip on her katana or misses a swing, yet to reverse the momentum of it back down upon Okita. Now she sees what Archer meant: this Rider is too fast to hit, and too slow to be hit by, an impasse that would leave her teammates vulnerable if she’s unable to overcome it.

Well, there’s always _ that _ option. Hijikata had warned her against doing anything that might reveal her true identity, but would anyone remember her for this? Okita lands firmly on the ground and sets her feet, holding her katana over her shoulder. Three steps, three thrusts. Rider lands opposite her a few meters away and rushes at her again, unwilling to give Okita any time to ready herself. Too bad, Okita thinks- this is what all her training was for, to ensure she’d be ready to execute this move at any time in battle. Her sword arm tenses as Rider draws near, close enough for Okita to see barbs on the hawk feathers in her hair. At this range, the blow will certainly be lethal. She doesn’t even need for it to hit; she only needs to _ not miss_.

Okita thrusts her sword forward, and the treeline explodes with light. Rider’s eyes squeeze shut to ward away the sudden brightness, and Okita’s blade slides home. True to her expectations, Rider had managed to dodge the first thrust, and so the second and third had done their jobs. Rider’s body tumbles to the ground, headless, spewing golden light rather than fresh crimson. The only hints of blood are the flecks that cling to Okita’s blade, easily shaken off with a practiced flourish, and the taste of iron filling her throat.

“No-” Okita gasps, barely keeping hold of her sword. She manages to slip it back into its scabbard just before her knees hit the grassy dirt, blue-sleeved hands flying to her mouth. No, that’s not right- her kimono is pink, not blue with white mountain peaks around the edges-

“Saber, there you are!” Archer stumbles through the trees, a rifle in one hand and the other resting on the pommel of her sword. “Ah, done already? That was fast!” Okita doesn’t answer, trying vainly to confine the sound of her coughing to her hands. Archer walks a circle around Rider’s disappearing body, poking at it with her rifle. “Did you get a bit of her Saint Graph already? Oh, never mind, it’s just stuck to your sword.”

Archer leaves Rider’s body to finish fading away, pacing a wide circle around Okita. The rifle vanishes in a similar spray of gold, and Archer’s hands now rest on her hips, as if to show Okita that her weapon remains, for the moment, beyond her immediate reach. “You gonna use that?” Archer asks her, thumbing at Okita’s katana. A hint of rune-engraved light flickers up at Okita from the scabbard, reaching up towards her as if begging to be touched, held. Okita pries a hand away from her mouth and reaches for it between coughs. It fades as soon as her fingers brush through it, a feeling of contentment branching out from where it made contact with her hand.

“You’ll probably feel what bit of her Saint Graph that you stole in a few hours,” Archer says nonchalantly. “I hope it makes you faster. We need that.”

“So that’s-” Okita strains for breath, a silence that stretches for several seconds. “-what you mean by taking parts from the others?”

“Yeah,” Archer says. “We take parts from them, they take some from us, it all gets real confusing after a while. Usually, you’ll be able to identify what originally came from you, so you can take it back if you get whoever took it from you. Confusing, right?” Archer laughs again, pointing to her chest, where a patchwork mesh of conflicting runes shines briefly through her coat. “It’s okay, after a while they all just become parts of ‘you’.”

“And all of you are just okay with this?” Okita asks, finally regaining control of her breathing. She pushes herself upright on her knees, watching Archer approach.

“Why not?” Archer pauses, digging awkwardly through her coat. A star-shaped lump of what Okita hopes is candy is extracted from one pocket, and several empty gunpowder capsules from another. Finally, Archer finds what she’s been searching for, producing a length of black fabric from a bulging inner pocket. “Here! Take this!”

“What is this?” Okita asks, watching Archer drape the object in her hands. From this close, Okita can pick out the details that would easily be missed otherwise: the single golden thread that works its way around the edge, a miniscule attempt at decoration, and the five-petaled flower in a circle embroidered at the very end.

“A scarf!” Archer declares. “And your hint.”

“Why would I need one-”

“Because if you keep coughing blood on your clothes, everyone will figure out who you are,” Archer says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “If you’re going to do that, at least pick a color that doesn’t give it away.” 

“And I suppose I’m not the only one of your teammates you’ve given a handmade item to?” Okita pulls the end of the scarf closer, squinting at the symbol. It’s familiar to her, something she must’ve known in her life, if only she can put a memory to it.

“Like I’d do that for anyone else!” Archer grins and finds her way to a nearby tree with a low enough branch for her to grab and begin to clamber onto. “I did it because I felt like it! And you asked me for a hint, didn’t you?”

Archer settles herself at the base of the branch, golden greaves kicking back and forth in the air, and in that moment, something clicks for Okita. A love for guns and a disregard for swords; a figure who was known by Okita’s time as more demon than human; one wreathed in red, equal parts blood and fire.

“Oda Nobunaga.” Okita grasps for her sword, but the pain in her chest protests at the sudden motion, and her hand falls far short. “Demon Archer. I should’ve guessed.”

“Okita Souji,” Nobunaga replies, her smile now one of gentle approval. “Or Sakura Saber.”

“When did you figure it out?” Okita demands, bracing herself against a nearby tree as she pushes herself to her feet. “Just now?”

“I knew it was you as soon as I saw that.” Nobunaga points a finger at the neck of her kimono, dotted with multiple maroon stains. “Of course, you had a lot less before.”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” Okita fires back. “You reek of blood.”

“But of course!” Nobunaga spreads her arms wide, letting her cape flare out behind her. The fire of Honnouji burns madly behind her eyes and in her grin as she says, “I’ve dyed in it, myself.”

Okita’s retort is cut short before it even starts by another round of coughing, louder and more prolonged than the first. Nobunaga hops off her branch and moves over to Okita’s side, bracing up against her. She gives no verbal offer of help, nor does she slow her pace as she turns back towards their base, traversing the forest with all the finesse of someone who would rather burn it rather than walk through it. That her strides match with Okita’s is just the natural consequence of her short stature: this is what Okita tells herself when she lays awake at night, replaying that day’s events over in her head, a black scarf wound around her neck, her fingers endlessly tracing over the golden flower at the end.

* * *

The first of the summer storms move over the land with little warning more than distant peals of thunder, rattling the rafters of the base and Okita’s sickness, laying dormant in her chest. The moisture in the air mingles with the sweat clinging to her skin, a weightless pressure that chokes the air out of her. Soon, the constant pattering of the rain is joined by Okita’s labored breathing as she struggles to sit up.

Outside, the rest of the compound is drenched in the same listless grey as the sky. Okita doesn’t hear her teammates moving around: not Hijikata, training by the garden, or Nobunaga, playing around by the forge in her endless quest to find the best possible rifle to summon to her side. There isn’t even the lilting song of Okki’s footsteps over the rooftops and walls that is so often the first sound that Okita hears when she wakes.

What Okita hears instead is the sound of armored feet utterly disregarding the fragile wood flooring, sliding to a stop in front of her door. Okita closes her eyes and falls back onto her futon, wondering if it’s not too late to feign sleep. Nobunaga is enough to deal with already, and having her pay a visit while Okita is in no shape to speak all but means long, meandering conversations that Okita can scarcely follow.

No, too late- Nobunaga’s already got a hand on the sliding door, jerking it to the side. She strolls into Okita’s room with a certain tenseness that Okita’s never seen in her before, kneeling beside Okita’s futon and tilting her head. “Took you long enough,” Nobunaga says. “I was wondering if you were going to sleep through the whole day.”

“I still might.” Okita presses the heel of her palm to her chest, trying to will the tightness away. Perhaps it speaks to her unacknowledged fondness for the Demon Archer, or just her own exasperation at her condition, that she’d rather have to fend off Nobunaga than spend her morning in bed coughing. “You were watching me.”

“Kind of, yeah!” Nobunaga rocks from side to side on her calves, more restless than usual. “I mean, I was just kind of keeping watch in general, but you’re the only one I have to watch!”

“Okki?”

“Gone.” Nobunaga shakes her head. Okita starts with surprise, chest clenching painfully, and Nobunaga places a hand to the base of Okita’s neck, holding her still as she hacks into her clenched hands. “Not like that! Everyone left already, that’s what I meant!”

“L-left?”

“Yeah, the Grail is moving again.” Nobunaga waits for Okita’s coughs to subside, then goes on. “It does that every once in a while. We think it has to do with the natural flow of the earth’s energy. Ruler felt it starting to leave this morning, so he ordered us all to follow it.”

“Why aren’t you gone?” asks Okita, wiping the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. It comes away tinged in pink, and her instinctive wince only triggers another bout of coughing.

“Ruler’s a hardass,” Nobunaga laughs. “He wanted us to travel alone. ‘If we move in a group, we’ll run the risk of being tracked and hunted down. You should find your own ways to the new battlefield, and don’t let them catch you’. Like anyone’s going to be hunting at a time like this.”

“Why?”

“Because this is the one time we can really die.” Nobunaga absentmindedly rubs circles into Okita’s shoulders, more concerned with scanning the room. “There isn’t enough of the Grail concentrated in one area to bring you back if you die. Until it reaches its destination, I guess you could say we’re mortal, in a sense.”

“So I’ll-” Okita swallows back a cough, and the bright flavor of blood fills her throat. “-die from this again?”

“Huh? That? Well, it’s probably part of your Saint Graph by now- oh.” Nobunaga rises to her feet, a strange urgency taking root in her eyes. “That would explain it. Your sickness is part of your legend, right? So it’s part of your Saint Graph.”

“And?”

“You’re not being sustained by the Grail right now.” Nobunaga moves around the room with surprising precision, taking Okita’s sword from its place by the wall and gathering up her scarf. “Your Saint Graph must be reacting to that.”

“I’ll be fine.” Okita swipes at Nobunaga’s hands, winding the scarf carefully around her neck. “I’m not an invalid.” Her eyes meet Nobunaga’s, and an unspoken understanding passes between them: Okita Souji is not someone who needs coddling.

“I know!” Nobunaga grins and pulls her hands away, flashing empty palms in a half-shrug. “But it’s your first move! You wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to travel with someone who’s got more experience than you, right? Hey, that reminds me, I got called here before you. Doesn’t that make me your senpai?”

“If you start calling me kouhai, I’ll run you through,” Okita grumbles. Still, Nobunaga’s words have brought a welcome smile to her lips, something to distract her from the blood coating them. “I accept, but just this once.”

“Good enough for me!” Nobunaga holds Okita’s sword out for her to take, watching Okita prop herself up with the scabbard before tucking it away into her obi. “It was headed off that way,” she says, pointing towards the west. “You’ll be able to feel it once we start moving from here. Maybe you’ll feel better once you do.”

“I’ve been through worse,” Okita says faintly. After all, she had once carried this illness with her into combat, drenching herself in the blood of her enemies until she could no longer tell if the acrid taste in her mouth came from her own throat or the air around her. If she had survived that, she could survive a simple trek through Japan.

“Is that so?” Nobunaga is fiddling with something around her neck, one of her outfit’s many gaudy cords looped loosely around one hand. “Well, you can still get cold. Being a Heroic Spirit doesn’t make you immune to the weather.”

“How are you even wearing that?” Okita says, gesturing at Nobunaga.

“I’m used to things being hot!” Nobunaga’s red eyes glint far too brightly in the combined darkness of the covered sky and the room’s shadows. She flings a hand out to her side, and her cape goes with it, fluttering like fire in a breeze. “Here. Take this. It’ll keep you warm.”

“I-”

“And I want it back when we stop for the night!” Nobunaga says, already moving towards the hallway. “Now hurry up! The others left hours ago! At this rate, they’ll have half a day’s lead on us!”

Nobunaga is through the door before Okita can get a word in, pounding down the hall and out under the cloud-choked sky. Okita takes another moment to adjust her sword, testing the ease with which she can draw it. She hesitates to put on Nobunaga’s cape, which in the humid weather smells even more of bitter ash and iron, but its warmth is palpable in her hands, as if it’s just been pulled from the heart of a blazing fire. Wrapping it around herself, she feels the pressure in her chest recede just a bit, enough for her to get her first real breaths of air.

Okita comes out into the rain to find Nobunaga standing under it with her arms spread wide, a hat adorning her head. Its golden rays challenge the dark clouds above, and at their center is the same flower that Nobunaga had stitched into Okita’s scarf. “Where’s that from?”

“I’ve always had it!” Nobunaga declares. “But I couldn’t wear it, since it gives who I am away. No one’s around to see it now, so here it is! Hey, one of us has to be able to see without water getting into our eyes!”

Okita just shakes her head again, hiding her smile behind the fabric of her scarf. Pulling the collar of Nobunaga’s cape up around her neck, she follows Nobunaga past the open gates and down the back of the hill. With every step, her next breath comes easier to her than the last. Just before they start their descent into the forest, Nobunaga looks back over her shoulder and shoots Okita a smug, knowing grin. Another twinge takes hold in her chest, oddly warm, persisting long after they’ve stepped into the underbrush and out of the rain. That would be from the cape, Okita tells herself. Why would it be anything else?

* * *

Nobunaga insists that they travel through the night, the only thing she’s ever agreed upon with Ruler. “The sooner we get to the new site, the better,” Nobunaga tells her. “For one thing, Okki will be there.”

Okita nods her agreement, not bothering to try and make herself be heard over the roar of the storm. The rain comes down in nearly solid sheets now, slowing their progress to a crawl as they slog through ankle-deep mud. It clings to Okita’s sandals and Nobunaga’s greaves alike, weighing them down, the only thing keeping them from falling the tenuous grip that they have on the other’s arm.

Between the downpour, the sloshing of mud around their feet, and their own heavy breathing, neither of them notice the third set of footsteps joining them until a silver blade whips through the air, headed for Nobunaga’s back.

“Archer!” Okita calls, and Nobunaga stumbles in the mud, a rifle materializing in her hands and just as quickly cut in two.

A woman in pale robes stares at them, her equally white hair standing out against the dark of the forest behind her, giving her the appearance of a ghost. She brandishes a multi-pronged spear with one hand and a katana with the other, studying them with a tilted head. “Oda,” she says. “I didn’t expect you to have company.”

“Archer, who is this?” Okita asks her, drawing her own katana and holding it in front of her.

“She’s from my time,” Nobunaga sighs. “Uesugi Kenshin, Nagao Kagetora, Lancer class. She’s been trying to kill me for the past half a year.”

“And succeeding.” Kagetora gestures to herself, where more than a few lines of familiar golden runes run through her Saint Graph. “But never enough to take you out of the fight permanently.”

“Yeah, and you can thank your teammates for-”

“Hey!” Okita’s eyes flit between the two. “Focus!”

“How lucky for me that I’ve found you here.” Kagetora gestures with her spear, pointing it at Nobunaga. “Or perhaps it’s simply the will of Bishamonten that I kill you tonight.”

“It’s two on one this time,” Nobunaga says, reaching to her side and drawing her own katana. “What do you think of that?”

“A fitting challenge, at last,” Kagetora answers with a smile.

“You’re not using your rifles?” Okita asks.

“I can’t hit her!” Nobunaga shrugs, a hint of helplessness creeping into her smile. “It’s part of her Saint Graph. Bullets don’t hit her! Not even mine!”

“So you brought me with you to be your bodyguard?!”

“It was a mutually beneficial suggestion!” Nobunaga can’t help a grin from spreading on her face, quickly replaced by a scowl as Kagetora leaps forward, bringing her spear down on Nobunaga’s katana. “Saber-!”

“Fine!” Okita starts in their direction, only to find her movements hampered by the mud. Nobunaga wards off another series of strikes, fumbling with her grip in the heavy rain. The point of Kagetora’s spear grazes an arm, a shoulder. Nobunaga shouts and drives herself back, colliding with a tree. Okita sees red and blinding white- lightning in the sky above- and lunges, forcing Kagetora away. To her left, more popping flares of yellow: Nobunaga calling a line of rifles instinctively to support her advance.

Kagetora lands a meter away, weapons held at her sides, grinning like a child. “How is she moving like that?” Okita calls to Nobunaga. “What does she have, Protection from Mud?”

“Probably!” Nobunaga laughs breathily, pressing her injured arm against the tree. “Now you see why I hate her so much!”

“How do you normally get rid of her?”

“She doesn’t.” Kagetora flicks her spear, splattering the nearby grass with red droplets that just as quickly fade to pink, and then to nothing. “She dies or she runs- which I suggest is what you do, Saber. I might just forget I saw you if you do.”

Okita’s palms shift on the hilt of her sword, tightening around the wrap. “If you shoot me,” she mutters to Nobunaga, “I’m going to kill you after I’m done with her.”

“Hah, wouldn’t dream of it!” Nobunaga grins and flings her arm out, calling another wall of rifles in front of her. Okita closes her eyes and throws up an arm to ward off the sudden bursts of light, rushing forward. Her blood hums with excitement, the thrill of combat. Her sword twists in the air, meeting Kagetora’s sword and spear, the _ clangclangcrunch _of Kagetora’s blades going wide and sinking into the trees and Okita rearing back for a thrust of her blade.

Okita’s sword moves for Kagetora’s heart. Kagetora’s arm gets in the way. Okita feels her strike sink home through flesh and click against hard bone. Blood runs down the edge, dripping off halfway and staining her sleeves, now the blue of a clear sky instead of pink. Confusion registers briefly in Kagetora’s eyes, and she yanks her wounded arm away from Okita’s katana, examining it with vague interest.

“You carry your katana with the blade up,” Kagetora muses. “You’re from a later time-”

Nobunaga’s rifles sound against the thunder, shots going wide around Kagetora. “Don’t let her get away!” Nobunaga shouts, advancing with her katana held in her off hand. Okita nods, her arm twisting to prepare another blow, but the reflections of eight weapon shine against her eyes, and even for her, blocking them all would be impossible. The crack of gunfire rings in her ears, bullets sparking off Kagetora’s weapons. Nobunaga’s rifles dissolve into golden dust as she lashes out wildly, sword swiping only empty air. Kagetora ambles back into the cover of the trees, quickly becoming a blur of white and silver running in the direction of the new battlefield.

“I’m going after her- ah?” Okita’s haori fades with another rippling of gold, turning back into her pink kimono. Nobunaga fires another volley into the trees for good measure, watching the bullets pass through the trees.

“She’ll be telling the others about you now,” Nobunaga sighs. “Well, it can’t be helped. Someone would’ve figured you out eventually.” She sheathes her katana with a sigh, shoving her good shoulder under Okita’s arm and wrapping it around her neck. “Let’s get away from here, Okita.”

“I can walk fine-” Okita stammers and coughs again, katana nearly slipping from her grasp. She navigates it to her scabbard with trembling hands, where Nobunaga’s wrap around hers and tuck it neatly away.

“You’re falling over, Saber.” Nobunaga’s words are gentle, but true. Okita’s chest clenches painfully under the effort it takes to merely breathe through the heat and the water in the air, and fighting Kagetora hasn’t helped things. Nobunaga kneels in the mud, hoisting Okita onto her back with little more than a grunt of effort. “There was a cave a klick back,” she says, slowly turning in the direction they’d come. “We’ll stop there for now.”

Okita coughs again, a feeble stirring of air and blood in her lungs. “You said to keep going,” she manages to gasp out, and is met with Nobunaga reaching back to flick her nose.

“That was before we ran into a crazed Lancer.” Nobunaga shifts her shoulders, either a shrug or an attempt to get some of Okita’s weight off her injured arm. “You can’t travel like this, and this will take time to heal when we’re this far from the grail.”

What Okita wants to say next is, _ I don’t need you to carry me. _She could force the words past the stirring in her chest, insist on making it to the cave on her own power, but the warmth radiating from Nobunaga’s body is something she doesn’t want to give up just yet. She lets herself be carried through the trees, moving only to keep Nobunaga’s cape from snagging on the branches, the slow plod of Nobunaga’s steps nearly lulling her to sleep.

Oktia opens her eyes when she no longer feels rain pelting her face. Nobunaga has stopped and is kneeling again, head tilted back towards Okita expectantly. Okita slides off, lets her arms fall away from Nobunaga’s shoulders. She doesn’t even remember putting them there, she thinks dimly, barely registering the sound of Nobunaga’s boots squishing away and back into the storm. It strikes Okita as odd, the familiarity of the way Nobunaga moves, as if she’s done this before. The histories that Okita’s read only mention Nobunaga as a warlord. They say nothing of what Nobunaga might have done, of an injured comrade that Nobunaga might have rescued from the battlefield and carried to safety, or of the gentleness hidden behind the facade of the Demon King.

Nobunaga returns several minutes later, armfuls of soggy branches in her arms. She pauses at the edge of the cave, looking curiously at Okita, then back down at the wood.

“Do it anyway,” Okita tells her. She stifles a cough, wrapping Nobunaga’s cape tighter around her. “I need the light.”

Nobunaga gives her a questioning shrug, dropping the timber in a messy pile just by the mouth of the cave. She shoves it into a hasty pyramid before lowering her hands into it, the fierceness of her flame chasing smoke into the air. Okita lowers her head against her chest, waiting for Nobunaga to finish, until at last her muted coughing is joined by the crackling of fire and the clatter of Nobunaga’s greaves hitting the cavern floor.

“Finally,” Nobunaga sighs, leaning against the opposite wall. “Thanks for helping me out back there, Okita. We’ll get her next time.”

“‘Next time’, she’ll come back.” Okita pushes herself upright, pulling her katana away from her obi and drawing a small bag out from under her kimono. She inches towards the fire, sitting cross-legged in front of it before emptying the bag onto her lap.

“What’re you doing?” asks Nobunaga.

“Cleaning my sword. You should too, since you took it out in the rain.”

“You know you don’t need to do that, right?” Nobunaga rolls onto her side, hair splaying out beneath her. “You’re a Heroic Spirit. Your weapon is as strong as you are. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone’s weapon breaking.”

“I’d rather not take my chances.” Okita works her hands through the familiar motions of wiping, powdering, wiping, oiling. What she doesn’t tell Nobunaga is that this is her way of returning to reality, wiping the chaos of battle away like blood off her blade. Once she’s inspected her blade in the firelight and sheathed it, she holds out a hand for Nobunaga’s. “Here. Give me yours.”

“I’m telling you, it’s pointless.”

“Nobunaga.”

“Fine. Come get it yourself.” Nobunaga rolls closer, pushing the hilt of her katana towards Okita. Okita draws it, holding it up to the light. The grey metal is pitted with hints of maroon, and a familiar scent fills the air that makes Okita’s throat tighten painfully. Her hand trembles around the wrap, unwilling to bring it any closer.

“It’s rusted,” is all Okita can say. Nobunaga waves a hand, more concerned with watching the fire than what Okita telling her. Her red eyes leave the firelight at the first sound of Okita coughing, taking the katana from her and putting it away, with it going the unwelcome stench of blood.

“Get some sleep,” Nobunaga mutters, sitting down by Okita’s side. Her hands reach for the fire, stirring it up into a blaze that flings sparks out to be strangled by the humid air. “I’ll make sure no one sneaks up on us.”

Okita nods, stretching out on her side and closing her eyes. Nobunaga’s hands move around her, adjusting the cape over her shoulders like a blanket. Okita shakes beneath it, another cough forcing its way through her, but this one seems weaker than the ones before. The worst of it has passed for the night. Okita chances a sigh, holding it for longer than she should, and is rewarded by the tension in her lungs vanishing slightly. Nobunaga moves beside her, a hand meeting stone, and a moment later Okita feels the faint touch of fingers along her hair. Sleep finds her soon after.

* * *

Something stops Okita and Nobunaga dead in their tracks on the afternoon of the fourth day. It’s little more than a shift in the wind and an instinctive feeling, but Nobunaga grins and throws her arms up in celebration. “We made it!” she declares, scouring the horizon. “Alright, where’s everyone else?”

“How do you find each other normally?” Okita asks her.

“Well, wandering around, mostly. Whoever gets here first picks a spot to settle down and starts putting up a base if we don’t already have one in the area, and then the rest of us come help when we get there.”

“And we’re probably the last ones.”

“Yep!” Nobunaga gazes over the landscape: hills straddle both sides of a town built where open grass would be. The outline of a crumbled castle sits atop one of the tallest hills, the others covered with trees and greenery. “Wow, bad place to land,” she mutters to herself, turning towards the further hills. “It really depends on who got here first.”

“Who normally does?”

“Saber of Flowers and Okki,” Nobunaga replies. “Usually Okki. She likes getting a base settled as fast as possible, since most of her powers are tied to having one.”

“What if the others got here first?”

“You mean Kagetora’s group? They’d probably have set up by the ruins, in that case. Hard for us to go to them without drawing the attention of the townspeople, easy for them to come after us if Okki isn’t ready.”

“Let’s go with that.”

“In that case, Okki would probably have picked…” Nobunaga taps the hilt of her katana against her hip a few times. “Likely somewhere in the forest. Cut down a few trees, use them to build what we need, hide the rest behind some branches, camouflage. They can’t come after us if they can’t find us.”

“If you’re wrong?”

“Then we run away screaming and hope someone else finds us!” Nobunaga laughs and throws her cape, taken back from Okita and traded for her hat, over her shoulders. “No, trust me on this! I’ve never guessed wrong.”

An hour later, Okita has to admit that Nobunaga was right. Evil Wind is the one who finds them on his patrol rounds and brings them back to meet with Ruler, his sleeves tied off above his elbows as he hoists a roughly cut log over his shoulder.

“Archer, Saber.” Ruler dips his head at both of them in greeting. “You traveled together?”

“She saved my ass from Kagetora, so you can’t say anything about it,” Nobunaga says, draping an arm over Okita’s shoulder.

“That would explain why you’re a whole day late.” Ruler sighs and gestures at the earthenworks behind him, into which Okki is stabbing a series of poles. “We’re getting our perimeter set up before we start anything else. Saber, I need you to help Saber of Flowers with felling more trees. Archer, did you see the enemy’s location on your way in?”

“No, but I have a guess.” Nobunaga’s mouth twists, and she gestures in the direction of the town. “By the old ruin. Likely, behind the hill.”

“That’s too close to be safe.”

“They have a Caster,” Nobunaga reminds him. “And it makes sense. Why would we look so close to the town?”

“Fine. I want you to go and scout it out, and tell me what they’re working with.” Ruler’s lips curve up into a rare smile, and he gestures towards the wooden barricade. “Berserker says he took out the Assassin that was giving us so much trouble on the way here. Given that we haven’t found anyone new, the other team must have them. I want to know who it is.”

“Ruler, I don’t think I’ll be able to just waltz over and sneak a peek at who it is.”

“Then stake them out. Find out whatever you can, then come back.”

“Okay, fine. But I’m squeezing a nap in before tomorrow, and you can’t stop me.”

“Do what you must.”

“Wait.” Okita frowns, glancing around Ruler. “You’re having Saber of Flower cut down trees with her katanas?”

“You’re a Heroic Spirit,” Ruler says. “I’m pretty sure you can beat a tree.”

“That’s not what katanas were made for!”

“Katanas aren’t supposed to shoot beams either, but look at what we’ve got!” Nobunaga laughs. “Well, not you. I told you earlier, your sword is as strong as you are. You think you’re weaker than a tree?”

“I’m not!” Okita huffs, her gaze darting to where Berserker has appeared atop the wooden palisades, hammering the latest one into the ground with nothing but his fists. “Fine, I’ll try.” Okita puts a hand to the hilt of her sword, yet her fingers don’t close around it just yet. “How long does it take to get one of these places set up, anyway?”

“A few days, usually. It depends on who we have with us and where we end up.” Ruler lifts the wood back onto his shoulder, waving at Okki and Berserker. “Archer, leave as soon as you can. Sakura Saber, go talk to Saber of Flowers.”

“I’m really going to have to cut down trees with my sword,” Okita groans, pulling her scarf over her face. “Hijikata is going to kill me.”

“I’m sure he’ll understand!” Nobunaga ruffles Okita’s hair, turning towards the hills. “But just in case he does kill you, be sure you fall asleep first! I’m gonna find a good place to doze off!”

“When will you be back?”

“Aww, missing me already?” Nobunaga plunges a hand into her coat pocket, feeling around for something. “Ah, here we go. Take this!”

Nobunaga thrusts her hand forward, clenched around a small cloth sack. It clatters as Okita takes it, opening it to find a small collection of star-shaped candies. “Why-”

“Nope! It’s yours now!” Nobunaga is already backing away, far out of Okita’s reach. “Just eat one every time you miss me, and I’ll be back by the time the bag is done! But if it isn’t, you can give me the rest!” Nobunaga grins broadly and gives Okita a wave before darting into the forest, no doubt in search of a good tree to climb up and sleep in.

Okita is left with the half-full bag in her hand and no Nobunaga to shout at, and for the first time in days, there’s a silence in which she doesn’t know what to do. Her hand moves from her katana to the candy, carefully picking one out and popping it into her mouth. The candy crumbles beneath her teeth, pleasantly sweet, dissolved and gone in a minute. The bag goes into Okita’s kimono beside her sword cleaning materials, and she heads toward the Saber of Flowers, drawing her katana as she goes. Maybe katanas weren’t meant for cutting trees, but Heroic Spirits weren’t meant for eating things, either. For now, she tells herself, this is just how things are.

* * *

The enemy base is set up exactly where Nobunaga guessed it’d be. It’s at times like these that she wishes their team still had a Caster: she’s staring down a fortress with high walls of earth and wood, held together by a mix of mud and conjured magic. No Heroic Spirit guards the walls- something Nobunaga finds odd- but even stranger still is the lack of activity at the base. No one has come or gone for days, and yet the structure is far too intricate to have been made simply to act as a decoy.

Nobunaga stretches her legs out against the branch she’s seated on, yawning and throwing her arms over her head. Another uneventful day has been wasted on watching a dead base when she could be helping construct her own. More often than not, she’s caught herself thinking about her journey with Okita, and misses having that presence beside her, someone she can count on to fight beside her and not stab her in her sleep- misses Okita.

Something rustles down on the forest floor, and Nobunaga peers over the edge mat of leaves and twigs she’s woven together for cover. Her hands cling to her rifle, ready to take a shot.

A hat moves through the brush, red and gold and familiar. Nobunaga’s stomach churns as her face flushes with heat, not the same kind that fills her when she thinks of Okita, but angry and just a hint confused.

The only warning Nobunaga gives is the rasp of her katana being drawn. She drops out of the tree and lands directly behind her target, sword aimed at their neck. “What are you doing here?” Nobunaga demands.

Her enemy turns around, hands held in the air in surrender, and gives her the sheepish grin he always wore when apologizing. “Is that any way to greet your little brother?” Nobukatsu asks. “I’m here for the same reason as you- the remnant Grail called me here to fight, and so here I am.”

“You’re the new Heroic Spirit?”

“Of course!” Nobukatsu extends a hand, pushing Nobunaga’s katana down. “But if I’m just meeting you now, then that means you’re with the other side? Why don’t you come over and join me, big sister?”

Nobunaga’s other arm flies up, leveling the rifle at Nobukatsu’s face. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch: he’s stared down Nobunaga’s barrel before, but this time if she fires, it won’t be his end. “Why would I do that?” Nobunaga asks, her voice as hard and cold as the steel clenched in both her hands. “Your Lancer teammate keeps trying to murder me, and you betrayed me twice in life.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that anymore!” Nobukatsu’s smile broadens as he steps forward, pressing himself against the barrel. “This isn’t the world we were born into. I have no reason to betray you anymore! If you come to our side, with your knowledge we could wipe out everyone on that side, and find the new Heroic Spirits and make them join us, and once we don’t have to fight anymore, it can be just like when we were younger! There’s even one of your old retainers on our side!”

“What?” Nobunaga lowers her rifle, frowning. “Who? Why haven’t I seen them? Is it Monkey?”

“He hasn’t found you yet?” Nobukatsu tugs at the hair hanging loosely over his ear, mouth curved in a way reminiscent of when they were younger, when the cost of spoiled plans was scraped knees and nothing more. Nobunaga detests it. “It’s Mitsuhi-”

Nobukatsu staggers back, clamping both hands over his ear. Nobunaga stares at the smoking hole in the tree in front of her, watching smoke curl up from it. “You’d have me join someone who wants me dead, someone who killed me, and you?” Nobunaga brandishes her katana, pointing it towards Nobukatsu’s chest. “Only you would suggest something like that, Nobukatsu. You’ll only get a warning this once, you understand? I’m not changing sides for you, or for Mitsuhide. If I see you again, things will go exactly how they did before.”

“But, big sister-!”

Of course he wouldn’t know. He’d died long before Honnouji burned, and Mitsuhide might not have told him. Nobunaga tosses her rifle down, lets it dissolve, ignoring it and Nobukatsu’s shouts for her to come back. Her katana is slammed back into its scabbard with a force that rings clear through the forest, a bell-like peal of metal. It rings in her ears for a moment, drowning out Nobukatsu’s voice, and she can no longer hear him by the time her ears stop ringing.

She reaches the base at sundown, now surrounded by a tall wooden fence. Okki sits atop the makeshift entrance gate, just two upright logs with grooves cut along the ends to fit a flat slab of wood. She waves to Nobunaga as she approaches, leaning over the edge to call down to her.

“You find anything good?” she asks. “Ruler’s been asking me if you were back all day!”

“Nothing that you can’t ask him yourself,” Nobunaga shouts back. “How’re things here?”

“Wall’s good, rooms are tomorrow!” Okki lays back on the gate, kicking her feet in the air. “Both Sabers got tired of cutting things up. How can you be a Saber and be tired of swinging a sword?”

“Why don’t you try some hard work for once, Okki?” Nobunaga laughs, passing beneath her. She runs into Ruler just beyond the gate, his arms folded expectantly. “What?”

“You took longer than usual.”

“They weren’t over there.” Nobunaga shrugs, mirroring Ruler’s stance. “I found out who the new Heroic Spirit is. He’s an Assassin from my time.”

“True Name?”

“No idea.”

“And the others?”

“I didn’t see anyone else. They’ve got a base, but it’s pretty much abandoned. They’re all off doing something.”

“They haven’t come by here at all.” Ruler’s brow furrows. “What could they be up to?”

“Hey, leave me out of the strategy session.” Nobunaga pushes past him, glancing around the base. Several piles of wood mark where they’ll throw together some shelters- Nobunaga counts five- and bunches of dried grass mark where the others had tried to get some rest. “Where’s Sakura Saber?”

“Should be sleeping,” Okki calls down from above. “You worked her and Saber of Flowers way too hard, Ruler!”

“At least the hard part is done,” Ruler answers. “Anything else noteworthy, Archer?”

“Yeah, how’s this- I haven’t slept in a week and a half!” Nobunaga rubs her eyes, heading for one of the piles of wood. “Don’t wake me up unless we’re under attack, got it? Okki, promise me you won’t let Ruler wake me up?”

“Got it!”

“You’re the one waking everyone up…” Okita steps out from behind one of the piles, hiding a yawn behind her scarf. She smiles at Nobunaga, a sleepy twitch of the lips that only just manages to mask the fondness behind it. “How did it go?”

“Absolutely nothing happened.” Nobunaga grins at her, equally tired, her smile made heavy by the dirt on her face and the disappointment in her eyes. “Three whole days of nothing. I saw one person, and that was it. Even traveling with you wasn’t as boring.”

“If that’s what you think, you can have this back.” Okita tosses a bag at Nobunaga, laughing as she fumbles to catch it in time. “I saved you some.”

“Oh, you ate about half!” Nobunaga says, weighing the bag in her hand. “You really did miss me!”

“You wish I did. Go stuff your mouth with those, people are trying to sleep here.”

“If it’s you, can I join you? Hey wait, Saber!” Nobunaga runs after Okita, who’s turned away with an exasperated roll of her eyes. “Not like that!”

“You know you meant it like that.”

“And?” Nobunaga darts in front of her, suddenly energetic. “I’m just messing with you.”

Okita pauses, letting the silence drag on. “Fine,” she says at last. “As long as you share your cape with me.”

“That’s all?” Nobunaga tugs at the clasp around her neck, swinging her cape around her. “Then it’s a deal.”

Okita just sits back down in the dirt, leaning against the wood and patting the earth beside her. Nobunaga eases herself to the ground, offering Okita one end of her cape, already feeling the pull of sleep reaching for her the moment the wood hits her back. It’s not the most uncomfortable thing that she’s slept on, and that’s all that matters to her. As Nobunaga closes her eyes, she feels something bump against her shoulder. A second later, it comes lightly to rest against her head, and her ears fill with the sound of another’s steady breathing. It would seem that, like her, the Sakura Saber is a sentimental person after all. The thought brings a smile to Nobunaga’s face, one she doesn’t realize was there until it’s lost to the expressionless void of sleep, and from there is quickly forgotten.

* * *

Nobunaga is awoken not by Ruler, but by Berserker slamming wooden posts into the ground. She’s fallen over onto her side in the absence of Okita, and her cape hangs loosely off her shoulders where it was draped, the ends dragging in the dirt. It slides off onto the ground as Nobunaga sits up, blinking slowly to take in the mounds of wood, mud, and dried grass rising into being.

“Good morning.” Okita comes over, the front of her kimono covered in mud stains and stray bits of grass, and pats Nobunaga on the head. “You slept well, didn’t you?”

“I guess.” Nobunaga rolls onto her front, tugging her cape over her back and fixing it around her neck. “How long was I asleep?”

“Just under half a day. I had to pick up your slack. You owe me.”

“Don’t I get any credit for being on reconnaissance duty?”

“You said yourself that nothing happened.”

“Saber…” Nobunaga reaches up, patting some dust off Okita’s face. “You’re the worst.”

“You’re awake now, so give me a hand, won’t you?” Okita moves off in the direction of one of the mounds, gathering grass into her arms from a nearby stack. “Berserker already helped us get the roof on our room, so you just have to cover it with mud, and I’ll handle the rest.”

“Me? Playing in the mud?” Nobunaga laughs and hops to her feet, tailing Okita. “I think you’ve gotten me confused for someone else.”

“So the books were wrong and you didn’t spend your childhood terrorizing your province?”

“History can be wrong sometimes.” Nobunaga flashes Okita a dazzling grin, removing her cape and folding it neatly, setting it on some wood. “After all, the books never mentioned you were a woman.”

Nobunaga pulls back her sleeves, tucking them in neatly around her shoulders. The slender arms that lay beneath are not what Okita expected from Nobunaga; but, she reminds herself, this Nobunaga favors firearms over a blood-rusted katana that she never cleans. Nobunaga sets about her work with a strange fervor, running back and forth from their fort to the river nearby, hauling mud in the one bucket that Saber of Flowers ‘found’ during her patrol. (Chances are she took it from the town, but a missing bucket is what everyone except Ruler considers an acceptable loss). Okita finds herself stopping to watch Nobunaga scramble atop their hut, the bucket’s handle looped over the crook of one arm, only snapping back to the moment when Nobunaga shouts at her to toss some more grass up, and try not to hit her face this time.

They’re done by the time the sun has ascended to its peak in the sky, leaving the rest of the day to let the mud and straw settle themselves into place and get acquainted with the wooden frame. Nobunaga slides herself down the roof with a rustle, catching herself against the ground. “And done!” she declares, scratching at her mud-covered arms. “Ah, Saber- that’s the hardest I’ve worked since I got called here. Consider yourself lucky that the Demon Archer was in a gracious mood!”

“If you didn’t help me, you wouldn’t have a place to stay.” Okita tosses the last of the grass strands at Nobunaga’s head, a few of them catching in her hair and tangling in it. “You look ridiculous.”

“And you have mud everywhere!”

“I can just re-summon my outfit. What’re you going to do?”

“I’ll go to the river. No one’s there anyway,” Nobunaga says. “Come with me, or else I bet Berserker is going to make you help him.”

Okita glances over at Hijikata, still stomping on the roof of his hut to get all the logs lying flat. Nobunaga beckons to her with a smirk, and when Okita hesitates, grabs her sleeve and begins pulling her towards the trees.

“Are moves always like this?” Okita asks when they’re far enough away. “Scouting, building, making sure we’re not found?”

“Not usually.” Nobunaga seems more subdued away from the eyes of the others, content to let herself lag behind Okita with only the occasional hurried stride to keep pace with her. “Caster used to take care of things for us when we moved. She knew the land well, so she’d know where to find old inns or villages that were abandoned. Then it was just a few enchantments and letting Okki run around to get to know the place.”

“What happened? No one on your team really mentions it.”

“We don’t know.” Nobunaga shrugs, her sleeves drooping from her shoulders and beginning to sag towards her elbows. “She was supposed to be trying to get information on the enemy Caster and left for a week. When she didn’t come back, Ruler took the lead and sent me out to look for a new Heroic Spirit. I found you, so that just meant Ruler was right.”

“That’s it?” Okita says incredulously. “You’re not sad about it? She’s been here since the beginning, and that’s all you have to say?”

“It can’t be helped.” Nobunaga sighs, moves to shove her hands into her coat pockets, rethinks it and keeps them awkwardly at her sides. “If we mourned someone every time they died, we’d have five funerals a week. You get used to it, then it becomes normal, and then someday someone doesn’t come back and they’re gone for good. That means there’s a new someone out there to be found, and if you don’t look for them, the enemy will get to them first. There isn’t really time to think about it.”

“That, coming from someone who sat in her room long enough to make me this?” Okita plucks at the end of her scarf, holding up the end with the Oda crest on it.

“She wasn’t from my time, and she wasn’t someone I knew well.” Nobunaga shrugs, as if that settles the matter. “It’s just what happened.”

“So what will you do if I don’t come back?” asks Okita. “Find my replacement?”

“That’s different!” Nobunaga’s voice shoots up in pitch, her hair flung to the side as she whips her head around to look at Okita. “We’re friends. Besides, as long as you’re with me, there’s no way anyone will take enough of you for you to disappear. We beat back Kagetora, and she’s the worst one out of all of them.”

“I drove off Kagetora, Nobunaga.”

“And I haven’t forgotten!” Nobunaga pats Okita on the shoulder before running the last few yards through the trees to the river, plunging her hands into the cold water and watching the mud caked on them flake away. “Ahh, much better.”

“I’m serious, Nobunaga.” Okita sits at the edge of the river beside Nobunaga, briefly shimmering with light. Her kimono flashes sharply, and when the light fades, it’s back the way it was before- pink, neatly folded, unmarred by the elements. “Would you look for me if I didn’t come back?”

The river sparkles in Okita’s eyes, and Nobunaga understands- it’s not the river that Okita sees, but the rain flowing against a grey-paned sky, waiting for news from the battlefield, hearing nothing but the sound of her own labored breathing day after day.

“Yeah, I would.” Nobunaga knocks her shoulder against Okita’s, and when that gets no reaction, draws her hands from the river and flicks her fingers at Okita, splattering her face with water.

“Nobunaga!”

“Come on, Okita!” Nobunaga grins, only to yelp as Okita’s palms meet her shoulder. She pinwheels her arms in vain, her balance faltering and pitching her headfirst into the river, where she vanishes with a splash that reaches where Okita sits, dousing her hakama. Nobunaga floats to the surface, spitting water and shaking her hair out of her eyes, the pout on her face not matching movement of her hands, scrubbing the last of the mud from her arms. “What was that for?”

“For splashing me.” Okita extends a hand for Nobunaga to grab, helping her out of the river. “You’ve read the history books, so you should know. Okita Souji is a merciless manslayer.”

“Who shoves her innocent roommate into cold water.” Nobunaga reaches over, squeezing her sleeve dry behind Okita’s kimono. Okita shrieks at the sudden chill running down her spine, but Nobunaga is too quick this time, leaning out of Okita’s reach. “Got you back!”

“Oda Nobunaga!”

Nobunaga dries the rest of herself off with a quick burst of her power, sending steam spiraling away from her clothes to be carried off by the breeze. “There, I can’t do it anymore. Call it even?”

“Only because you actually helped out earlier.” Okita kicks off her sandals and dips her feet in the river, dragging them back and forth along the bottom. “I’ll let you off this once.”

“Ahh, not so merciless after all?”

“Don’t test your luck.”

“Archer? Saber?” A singsong voice calls out from the treeline. Okki appears a moment later, delicately picking her way through the bushes. “There you are! I need to ask you something.”

“Aw, come on, we were having a moment!” Nobunaga leans back, holding her knees to her chest. “So what is it?”

“You two are staying together, right?” Okki smiles, a suspicious lightness to her tone. “I figured you were, but I need to be sure. It’s for my powers.”

“Really?” says Okita.

“Really! I have to know who’s where and everything like that.”

“Are we?” Nobunaga aims the question at Okita. Her reply is a raised eyebrow and a shrug. “Guess we are,” Nobunaga tells her.

“Aw, that’s cute. Thanks. I’ll leave you two alone, then!”

“Cute?!” Okita shouts, but Okki is already gone, skipping back the way she came, humming a tune that fades away as quickly as she herself disappears.

“We _ are _ staying together, right?” asks Nobunaga.

“I hadn’t really thought of an alternative,” Okita admits to her. “I guess you can, since you put in half the effort.”

“So you never considered having a room all to yourself like our last base?” Nobunaga’s smile grows smug, and she leans in as close as she dares. “If we had futons, I’d ask what your intentions are.”

“I’ll shove you into the river again.”

“Ah, Okita, I’m only joking!” Nobunaga launches herself back with such speed that she topples over onto her back, arms flopping uselessly onto her chest. The air rings with Okita’s laughter, and she gives Nobunaga a small smile of her own. Even that sound soon tapers off, and they’re left in a stillness that stretches on and on, Nobunaga staying flat on her back and Okita kicking her feet in the water, hiding her lower face in her scarf.

At last, she says, “You know, everyone I was close to when I was alive called me Souji.”

“Is that so?” Nobunaga’s head lifts briefly before thumping back against her folded hands. “Huh.” Another long pause. “Souji.”

“Wh-what?” Okita startles, glancing towards Nobunaga. “Hey, what’re you laughing at?!”

“Nothing, just… Hm. Souji.” Nobunaga says her name again, taking in its sound, its shape. She lets it roll off her tongue and drift along with the bubbling of the river, and when she’s said it a dozen times in just as many ways, Okita appears at the edge of her vision, scarf pulled up as high as she can manage, the faint pink tint of her cheeks still escaping beyond the fabric.

“Why do you keep saying my name like that?” Okita asks her, eyes scrunched in confusion.

“I just-” Nobunaga begins, oddly sincere, only to have that grin of hers shoot across her face. “Why?” she asks, lifting a hand and pointing a finger at Okita. “Never had anyone call your name like that?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“A pretty straightforward one. So?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Okita rewraps her scarf, staring off into the forest. “I devoted my life to the Shinsengumi. My duty came first, and relationships with other people came second.”

“That’s not an answer, Souji.” Her name glides from Nobunaga’s mouth, all at once forceful, like Nobunaga always is, and yet still somehow tender. “And the Shinsengumi no longer exist. You’re going to have to come up with better excuses when Ruler starts asking you what’s going on between us.”

“Ruler-?!”

“Because the only other Heroic Spirits I’ve known who share a room are Saber of Flowers and Okki, and they’ve _ definitely _ got a thing going on.”

“We don’t have a _ thing_, Nobu!”

“Oh, don’t we?” Nobunaga winds her fingers through the ends of Okita’s scarf, tugging her down. “So what’s with saying we’ll stay together and calling me Nobu, then?”

“I-” Okita ducks her face into her scarf, not even bothering to try for words she knows won’t come to her. Nobunaga twists her hand around, drawing Okita in closer until there’s hardly any space between them, even the wind seemingly content to go around them rather than intruding.

“Is that so,” Nobunaga says in the same tone she’d spoken Okita’s name, a gentle rasp that sets Okita’s heart to pounding more than any shortness of breath could ever instill in her. Nobunaga’s red eyes flash under the afternoon sun, and her hand sneaks further up the scarf, far enough for Nobunaga to run a thumb across Okita’s cheek. “Souji likes me.”

Okita voices no protest- she can’t, because Nobunaga isn’t wrong. Okita was never one for romance, but she isn’t a stranger to it, not when she had lived with Hijikata as a comrade. Hijikata would know what to say at a time like this, but he isn’t here; Nobunaga is, watching her with the same intent glimmer in her eye, waiting for an answer that Okita knows she’ll never be able to give.

Of course, this is Nobunaga, the Fool of Owari, master of the unexpected. Her hand winds those final turns and tugs Okita down; their lips collide with uncertain force, and for a moment, they’re kissing. Just as soon as Okita has registered that thought, Nobunaga moves away, relinquishing her grip on Okita’s scarf and laughing so loud that Okita thinks it would be a miracle if someone doesn’t hear her.

“Oy, Souji, your face!” Nobunaga falls back onto the dirt, pounding a fist against the grass. “Oh my god-”

“What was that for?!”

“To see what would happen!” Nobunaga’s smile falters slightly, and her gaze zeroes in on Okita. “Ah, but mostly I hoped you’d like it-”

“Were things like this in your time?” Okita asks abruptly. Nobunaga cuts herself short, and Okita elaborates: “On the battlefield,” she says. “Was there someone there for you who you… were close to?”

“Huh?” Nobunaga ponders the question for no longer than a moment. “Yeah, I’d say so. Why?”

“That wouldn’t have been practical for me,” Okita says. “There was always unrest that the Shinsengumi were being sent to deal with. Between the traveling and being First Captain, it just wasn’t possible.” Okita’s hands move towards her scarf, hesitating and settling for tightly gripping her obi. “I didn’t have companions on the battlefield aside from my comrades. And then I got sick…”

“I had one.” Nobunaga’s gaze grows wistful for a moment, looking past Okita and into another time. Then her eyes regain their focus, and her hand settles on the back of Okita’s neck, guiding her downward. “I think everyone did back then. There was so much fighting that it was pretty much normal.” Nobunaga’s breath tickles Okita’s lips, and with it the faint scent of ashes. “But I have to say, I’ve had the best time with you.”

Whether Okita lets herself fall, or if her legs have just finally given out after minutes of crouching, she’ll never be able to know. What she does know is how warm Nobunaga’s embrace is, the slow, deliberate movement of her mouth against Okita’s, and the way her fingers cling to the back of Okita’s kimono. Nobunaga’s power is fire, and she devours Okita like it, kissing the air from her lungs, coaxing more and more out of her until they’re both lying breathless in the grass, eyes locked on one another’s. They’ve found each other’s hands, somehow, and it strikes Okita how small Nobunaga’s are, that these are the hands that had nearly united Japan, enveloped entirely by hers.

“Hey, Souji.” Nobunaga tilts her head, knocking foreheads with Okita. “What’re you thinking?”

“Can we stay here?” Okita asks. It’s an odd request: the summer heat is bad enough for her as it is, and the presence of water doesn’t help at all, and yet somehow it’s fine if Nobunaga is with her.

“As long as you want,” Nobunaga tells her. “Or until Berserker comes and finds us.”

“He’d better not,” Okita mutters, settling her weight onto Nobunaga’s chest. “Nobu.”

“Souji,” Nobunaga whispers in turn, a delicate sound strung between the depths of measured patience and insatiable hunger. Okita moves in to kiss her again, and Nobunaga lifts her chin to meet her: this is their promise, their kiss seems to say, that Nobunaga will always come for Okita, that Okita will always be there for Nobunaga. It winds around them, in the air between them, a wordless promise to bind them both, and sealed with a kiss.

* * *

The enemy makes their move no more than a week later, ambushing Saber of Flowers in the forest and sending her to reform, shouting angrily, back in her and Okki’s shared room. Evil Wind picks off their Rider on a moonless night that takes her too close to the base. The enemy Lancer lurks at the place where Rider died for the next week, whittling down Ruler with sheer stamina before retreating back into the hills.

From there, it becomes a stalemate of trading portions of Saint Graphs, an exchange that Nobunaga notes her brother and former retainer have neglected to take part in. She keeps close to Okita, hopping the palisades to join Okita on her patrol rounds and passing it off as the simple desire not to be left bored. She’s Nobunaga, and so no one questions it.

The balance of the battlefield tips overnight, as Nobunaga knows such things are wont to do. She’s the one keeping watch when Berserker, not even bothering to sneak, strides out into the quiet forest. He comes back two days later wearing a wolfish smile and the enemy’s blood on his clothes, several new lines shuffling for a place in his Saint Graph. When Nobunaga asks, he tells her that he got them off three of the other team’s Heroic Spirits, and that the other two are nowhere to be seen. She doesn’t press further- she knows which two they are.

With the aftermath of Hijikata’s rampage comes a stillness in the conflict which even veterans like Ruler and Nobunaga can’t recall happening before. Their enemy all but vanishes from the battlefield, the only signs of their existence the periodic sightings of lone figures traversing the hills, disappearing long before anyone can reach their locations.

Idle days stretch into weeks. Berserker storms off into the woods following a shouting match with Ruler about going after a weakened enemy, and comes back that same night with nothing but a scowl to show for it.

Left with nothing to do, Okki ropes everyone else into redoing their base. Walls of mud become walls of wood; fences made of logs are reinforced with stones wrestled out from deep within the forest. When they’ve exhausted even that, there’s nothing left to do but go their separate ways, and the forest resonates with the sound of Saber of Flowers sparring with Evil Wind and the crack of Nobunaga taking potshots at trees, seeing if her accuracy is enough to chip kanji into the bark one nick at a time.

It’s a type of peace that Okita has never known before. She’s used to having to wait for orders, and she knows well the demands of fighting constantly along an ever-shifting battlefield. Whatever this is stretches far beyond the idea of waiting for an enemy to come to you and into a familiar stagnancy, one that had festered within her beside the infection in her final days. Despite what Hijikata tells her, Okita lets herself be swept along by her restlessness, accompanying Nobunaga on her treks into the forest, daring her to shoot ‘makoto’ into a trunk and carving out Nobunaga’s name in turn.

(What neither of them tell the others is that, with a thousand shots from Nobunaga and a few cuts from Okita, they felled those trees and stripped away the portions they’d worked on, pale blocks of wood that hang off-kilter from the walls of their hut. Nobunaga calls them a testament to their boredom, but Okita knows better.)

The team still keeps a rotating watch at night; failing to do so would be inviting disaster upon themselves. Unlike the others, who are mostly content to sit atop the gate and look out over the trees, Okita insists on walking the perimeter. She knows by heart the silhouettes of the clearing, the way the trees and bushes move with the wind, and she tells herself she’ll be ready for anything- but she’s wrong. She isn’t ready for the raised voices she hears one night, coming from a trampled trail in the grass. Briefly, she considers waking Ruler or Hijikata- it’s a fool’s move, going in alone- but then one of the voices comes through clearly, and her stomach churns. The other replies, and it takes a moment for Okita to make sense of it. She knows who she heard first; she knows that voice too well to be mistaken, but that same assuredness would mean she isn’t wrong about the second voice, either.

Okita flies down the trail, hardly making contact with the ground. Her sword is drawn even before she’s caught up, held ready to strike. She won’t hesitate, she thinks, and then her steps falter and the point of her blade swings indecisively in the air, because there are two people at the end of the trail arguing with each other, hands clenched and gripping at each other’s collars, and both of them are Nobunaga.

The two Nobunagas both look at Okita with mirrored motions of their heads, gesture at the other with a quick sweep of the hand. “Souji!” one of them says, sounding relieved. “You couldn’t have come five minutes earlier?”

“I was walking around the fence.” Okita’s sword swings one way, then the other. “You know I do that. What’s going on here?”

“Their Assassin is trying to pretend he’s me!” The second Nobunaga makes a move towards Okita, only for her to draw her sword arm back.

“Neither of you move!” she snaps, her tone suddenly cold. “If you do, I’ll cut you down!”

“Souji, it’s me.” The first Nobunaga spreads her hands disarmingly, smiling at her. Her Saint Graph shines clear over her coat, but so does the other Nobunaga’s, a winding tangle of identical marks that keeps Okita frozen where she is. This is supposed to be impossible- not even the Assassin class can fully mask their true Saint Graphs- and yet there are truly two Nobunagas standing before her, staring expectantly at her.

“Oh, forget this!” the second one shouts, throwing her arms up. “Souji, just go through both of us!”

“What?”

“We’ll go back to the last place we slept, so that means you’ll get the real ‘me’!”

“And I guess you’ll tell her to cut me down first, so you’ll be left alone with her?” the first Nobunaga asks her double. “Pretty convenient if you ask me.”

“Do it, Souji.” The second Nobunaga meets her gaze, eyes hard like steel. “Ah, but try not to cut up my Saint Graph too badly?”

“I was a second for someone in my time.” Okita sets her feet apart, lifting her katana to shoulder height. Three steps between herself and the two Nobunagas, and she’ll leave the rest to her blade. “I won’t cut too deep.”

One step, covering an impossible distance. “Souji-” the other Nobunaga says, and Okita hears the illusion collapse around her: Nobunaga has never said her name like that, and yet she can’t stop herself now that she’s begun.

Two steps. The first Nobunaga’s eyes alight with panic, and she turns to run. There won’t be enough time to get even a single stride in. Okita is far too fast for that, and already her blade aims for that Nobunaga’s head.

Three steps, and Okita’s sword flies forward. The fake Nobunaga doesn’t have time for anything more than a strangled gasp, and then they’re turning into a fine golden mist, which just as quickly spreads and fades into the sky. Nobunaga grins, holding her shoulder tightly, blood welling up between her fingers and staining her glove. “I knew you’d figure it out,” she says approvingly, pulling her hand away to glance at her arm. “You still got me.”

“You were too close to- him?”

“Yeah, him.” Nobunaga winces, squeezing both her hands shut. “I’ll fill you in back at camp. I wanna sit down and let this heal over.”

“Why were you even out here in the first place?”

“I got carried away.”

“Ugh, stay still, Nobu.” Okita tugs her obi off, rolling Nobunaga’s sleeve up to where her sword had cut her and tying it tightly around the bunched fabric. “There.”

“You know we can’t actually bleed out, right?” Nobunaga laughs, glancing down at her arm appreciatively. “It’s all just magical energy. Well, I guess we could run out of that and die that way, but that would be a lame way to go!”

“Then the less you lose, the less you’ll have to wait for the Grail to recharge you.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about that.”

“Really Nobu, what were you doing…”

“Getting recruited. No, really!” The two of them pass under the gates, Nobunaga lingering other them. “You won’t tell Ruler about this, right?”

“I might have to.” Okita leans against the wooden frame, one hand on her katana, eyes constantly scanning the treeline. “Explain, quickly.”

“Alright- you noticed it, right? The thing with our Saint Graphs. That’s the first thing you’d look for.”

“I did. How is that possible? Even an Assassin-”

“He’s not just an Assassin, he’s my brother. Oda Nobukatsu, tried to overthrow me twice, and now I guess he feels guilty about it and wants me to be on his side again.” Nobunaga scoffs, scratching at her wounded shoulder. “Like I’d ever want that.”

“That recon mission Ruler sent you on,” Okita says. “That’s when you ran into him. He was the new Heroic Spirit.”

“Nothing gets past you, Souji.” Nobunaga’s smile wavers under Okita’s scrutiny, and she lets it slide completely from her face. There’s no use in lying to Okita now, not when Nobukatsu’s been bold enough to come to their base and gotten her involved. “There’s another Heroic Spirit that I knew from my lifetime, too. That Caster I keep telling you about, the one I never saw? He’s Akechi Mitsuhide.”

“The one who betrayed you at Honnouji.” Okita’s tone registers surprise and recognition, and her eyes narrow. “So they’re working together, and they want you to join them. Do you think that’s why we haven’t seen them since all this started?”

“Most likely. You should’ve heard my brother go on.” Nobunaga gestures with her good hand, laughing bitterly. “How we could crush the opposition like I did back in our time, that without lands and a clan there’s no reason to turn on me, they were only doing what they thought best at the time- give me a break! Even if I trusted them, they’ve still got Kagetora, and I don’t think she’d pass up the chance to kill me a few times if no one was looking.”

“Would you consider it?” Okita’s voice is soft, thoughtful. “I’d understand if you did, Nobu. They’re from your time, and one’s your family.”

“One also tried to kill me, and the other succeeded in getting me to die. I’m not really looking forward to the reunion, you know?” Nobunaga’s smile is tense, softening as she meets Okita’s eyes. “Besides, that would mean leaving you, and I don’t want that.”

“I won’t tell Ruler who they are,” Okita sighs, hand shifting off her katana as she folds her arms. “Doing that would probably give away who you are, if he doesn’t know already. But I have to tell him that there was an Assassin around here.”

“Well, it can’t be helped.” Nobunaga shrugs and tugs at the sash wrapped around her arm, passing it back to Okita. “Thanks for lending this to me. I’m going to sleep this off.”

“Hey, Nobu?” Okita’s hand grips her wrist, and Nobunaga wonders what Okita will say next- some Shinsengumi-esque thing like _ don’t do anything rash_, most likely. Okita’s lips bump against hers, a kiss that’s over as soon as Nobunaga registers it’s begun, and Okita tells her, “Be careful.”

It would be like Oda Nobunaga to laugh those words off and remind Okita of who she’s speaking to. She could ignore the worry hidden behind Okita’s eyes and the gentle touch of their hands, telling Okita that these are not the battlefields of the Bakumatsu era, where death was the final end. No, it wasn’t, not for Okita. Everything clicks for Nobunaga- it’s not death that Okita means to warn her against, but failing to return, leaving Okita alone as she had once left the Shinsengumi.

“Okay,” Nobunaga says. “I will.”

Okita nods and releases her, pacing back and forth in front of the gate before walking out, presumably to take another lap around the fence. Nobunaga returns to their hut, barely bothering to move her cape as she collapses on the floor, staring blankly at the two wooden planks on the wall. Her arm tingles, a sign that it’s beginning to heal already, something that will likely take until the afternoon to finish. By then, Okita will have told Ruler about the enemy Assassin, and Ruler will be giving everyone new orders to deal with that- yeah, maybe it is better if Nobunaga sleeps through most of the day. For now, she lies awake with Nobukatsu’s words echoing in her head, trying to drown them out with thoughts of whether Okita would kill her or not if she shot the kanji for ‘Souji’ into the ceiling.

* * *

The only rule that the team actually manages to stick to is Ruler’s suggestion of taking the night watch in pairs, and even then, Hijikata would be defying it if Okita didn’t pull double duty and stay awake when it’s Hijikata’s turn to sit atop the gate. Nobunaga voices the concerns that Okita won’t, insisting she sleep twice as often, offering her sleeve for Okita to cough into, and shooting Hijikata death glares whenever they’re in the same space.

Tonight, it’s Nobunaga’s turn on the watch. For once, Okita is atop the gate, her head in Nobunaga’s lap, the gloved hand on her head idly playing with her hair. To her credit, Nobunaga keeps her eyes on the horizon, looking down occasionally to check on Okita. Nothing’s happened today, but it rained the night before, and there’s still enough moisture in the air to make breathing difficult without being impossible.

“No one’s coming here tonight,” Nobunaga sighs, flicking at that one stray strand of Okita’s hair that can never seem to lay flat. “I can tell. The moon is too bright and there’s no clouds. Only an idiot would come now.”

“Are you worried?” Okita asks.

“Not really about that,” Nobunaga says. “As long as they’re coming here, they’ll have to fight Okki. We’ve been here long enough for her to get established and everything. It’ll be a nightmare, trying to fight her here. Hey, what’s up?”

“I don’t want to lay down anymore.” Okita sits up, folding her legs beneath her and leaning against Nobunaga, her head resting on Nobunaga’s shoulder.

“Your lungs alright?”

“Fine. I just wanted to see what you’re looking at for a while.”

“Oh, that.” Nobunaga laughs and gestures grandly at the silver-tipped trees. “Behold, a lot of nothing.”

“Will you be reporting it to Ruler?”

“Now that you mention it, I might.” Nobunaga chuckles and kisses Okita’s cheek, throwing an arm around her.

“Nobu?” Okita turns to face her, an odd expression on her face. “I’ve been meaning to ask for a while- when did you get here?”

“You mean the whole fighting thing?” Okita nods, and Nobunaga tilts her head back, briefly lost in thought. “I can’t really remember. It’s got to be almost two years now, I think.”

“Why you?”

“Probably because I like fighting? Hey, I know about how this stuff works as much as you do. I know the Grail does weird stuff sometimes, though. Like instead of someone who wants to fight, it’ll call someone related to another Heroic Spirit already on the field. Like the Lancer on the other team, I know he’s close to Rider. And Okki showed up as the first Heroic Spirit after Saber of Flowers came here.” Nobunaga fixes her with a curious stare. “Why’re you asking?”

“I always wondered. You keep talking about things that happened between earlier Heroic Spirits, so I thought maybe you’d know why we’re fighting.”

“We don’t know.” Nobunaga shrugs, her fingers finding the edges of Okita’s hair and winding them in circles. “Our old Caster guessed it had to do with some exchange of magical energy between us and the Grail. Me, I’m fighting because I just want to. Also,” she says, her face souring, “because I’m going to kill Kagetora by myself at least once before I go.”

“Oh.”

“Why, what about you?” Nobunaga tilts her head, peering into Okita’s eyes. “Berserker was here for a while before you showed up, so your summon can’t be related to his, right?”

“No, I don’t think so. I…” Okita reaches up, her hand finding Nobunaga’s and clutching it. “When I died, my biggest regret was that I couldn’t be out there fighting with the others. That was what I’d always wanted: a good, honorable death in battle, or at least by my comrades’ sides. Then I got this instead.” Okita puts her other hand to her chest, taking a shaky breath. “I only got to fight a few times when I was alive, and it wasn’t like this at all. The enemy had guns, the Shinsengumi had hardly any, and you know how that goes.”

“Then maybe that's why the Grail called you here. You get your fill of battle, it gets whatever it wants, everything works out.”

“I don’t know,” Okita says, lowering her face into her scarf. “Somehow, it feels hollow. Being called back from the dead just to fight more?”

“Hey, look at it this way! Are you happy with how things are?”

“Well… there’s you and Hijikata here, so yes.”

“Then that’s all settled.” Nobunaga leans over, resting her head on Okita’s. “If you’re happy and this is what you want, then that’s what matters.”

“Of course you’d see it like that.” Okita turns to look at Nobunaga, smiling up at her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe it means I know you too well, Nobu.” Okita closes the gap between them, tongues meeting in a kiss, Nobunaga bracing herself against the top of the gate to keep from falling over. Of course, Nobunaga is right. Okita is happy here- maybe even happier than she’d been when she was alive, a thought that Okita is unwilling to let linger for long in her head. She kisses Nobunaga harder, Nobunaga returns the challenge, and Okita’s mind goes blissfully blank.

* * *

A peal of fire blossoms by Okita’s head, and the closeness of the burst rattles her chest, making her stumble. The sound of her panting is easily drowned out by the shouts of her pursuers, rapidly closing in around her. A sword flies at her from high above, and Okita barely finds the strength to raise her katana and turn it aside, ducking beneath some low-hanging branches for cover. Those are quickly sheared away by more bolts of fire, and Okita hears the enemy Rider leaping through the trees above her, with her companion Lancer no doubt close behind.

This is it, Okita tells herself. This will be the first time she dies here. She’s asked Nobunaga about it several times, and Nobunaga tells her it doesn’t even feel like anything-- just the sharp pain of death, quickly forgotten, a darkness like sleep, and then the sudden and possibly unpleasant awakening wherever the last place she’d slept was. (Nobunaga had offered to let Okita fall asleep in her arms, just to see if the Grail would count her as a place, and now Okita wishes she’d listened to that as more than a joke).

They’ve got her covered from all sides. Okita leans against a tree for support, hands sweaty around the wrap of her katana. She’d been careless; she’d been walking around the perimeter of the base when she heard Nobunaga, and the panic in her partner’s voice had been enough to drive all rational thought from her mind. All she could think of was Nobunaga facing the enemy alone, calling for the one person she trusted above anyone else. Now Okita is in the same situation, but there’s no one for her to call to- the enemy lured her out too far, and even if Nobunaga could reach her, Kagetora alone would be enough to hold her off.

The leaves above her rustle, and the enemy rider comes jumping down with her katana clenched in both hands, pointed down at Okita like a dagger. Okita dives to the side, her shoulder cracking against a root in the earth, and she sprawls out in the dirt, her weapon falling from her numbing hand. Why hadn’t she taken Hijikata’s advice when she was alive and started carrying a pistol? At the very least, she’d be able to try and take one of her opponents out with her.

The rest of the enemy team slowly gathers around her, observing her with the same curiosity that they would a trophy of the enemy on the battlefield. “That was easier than I thought,” a familiar voice says- Nobukatsu, winding his hair around his hand, still sounding reminiscent of his sister. “I didn’t take the Sakura Saber for such a fool.”

“It still feels like cheating,” Rider says in a tone that makes it perfectly clear her objection is purely academic. “Having a Saint Graph so close to Archer’s makes it easy to fake anything.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about that.” Nobukatsu rests his foot on the scabbard of Okita’s katana, grinding it into the dirt. Okita’s angry protest is drowned in blood coughed out onto the ground: she can’t even raise a hand to her mouth. “Caster, are you sure this is the one we want? Wouldn’t it be better to test this on someone else like Berserker?”

“I wouldn’t trust us being able to bind Berserker long enough to get him where we need to be.” The enemy Caster, Mitsuhide, steps out from behind Nobukatsu, and Okita gets her first good look at him. Now she knows what the flashes of color that she saw as she ran were; the lapels of his black suit are adorned with purple, and his tie is the same red as Nobukatsu’s uniform. “It’s better to test it on someone we know we can handle. Lancer of Flowers, if you would do the honors?”

Kagetora moves forward, holding her spear in the air over Okita. Ah, so that’s what it’ll be. They’ll carve her up like they did to the Caster she replaced. Okita’s chest churns again, grief welling up in the place of sickness. Nobunaga wouldn’t even know, unless she came looking for her. The thought gives life to Okita’s body; she rolls onto her stomach, scrambling to her feet, fists swinging wildly. One cracks across Nobukatsu’s cheek, sending him reeling, and then Kagetora grunts and the handle of her spear comes whipping into Okita’s stomach, throwing her into a tree. Her head hits the bark with a thud, and she can hardly breathe around the pain in her stomach. As her consciousness begins to fade, she feels herself being lifted over someone’s shoulder, and through the haze that has fallen over her eyes, she can’t tell if the blue in her vision is her own haori, or if the man carrying her has one on, too.

* * *

She’s lying on the floor, surrounded by people.

_ Her condition won’t get any better, only worse. Giving her this medicine will take the edge off the worst of it. Aside from that, there’s nothing you can do. _

“What happens when we throw her in?”

“We ask it to change her.”

“You think it’ll work?”

A black blur appears in the corner of her vision, and beyond that is a pool of glittering silver, too bright to be water.

_ There was a black cat that would play at the edge of the garden every morning. Okita always wanted to touch it. If she could get up- if she could somehow catch it- _

Okita plunges into the icy darkness. Hands restrain her head, her arms. The infection in her lungs gives way to what must be but can’t be water. She screams into it; she can’t move, she can’t breathe, all she can do wait and hope to die, _ try _to die, whatever will give her relief. She feels the water stir around her. Something is here, wordless whispers floating in the water alongside her.

_ -one day, she’d found the strength to get out from under the futon and run to the garden. The cat was there, waiting for her. All of it was within reach: the cat, Hijikata, the Shinsengumi. She wouldn’t be remembered for abandoning them, if she could just reach out- _

An unfamiliar battlefield. A girl in red and black, aiming a rifle at her, smiling and smelling of smoke and blood. A sword in Okita’s hands, the thrill of running down the enemy. Her head, separated from her shoulders, disappearing in the dust. Okita shakes the blood from her blade with a practiced swipe, checking the forest around her for more enemies. She is alone.

_ -she’d collapsed in the garden, never to rise again. The cat had fled, and Okita never saw it return. She’d stayed in the room overlooking the garden until the end came for her. _

The hands pull Okita back to safety. She coughs as soon as her head breaks the surface of the pool, gasping for air, taking it in. Her chest no longer hurts; she can feel it swell with the fullness of her lungs, and when she opens her eyes, her reflection stares back, golden-eyed and clad in red.

_ It was not the end that visited her, but the cat. It came to her in the night, claws tearing at her skin, ripping wide her chest and dirtying the floor with more blood than Okita thinks she should be able to lose. When it’s finished, it stares her down with golden eyes. The breath she’d lost screaming rushes back into her lungs; the gashes carved in her flesh are gone. For once, the room is quiet, no longer filled by the sound of pained gasping. But the floor is red, creaking under its weight, such a beautiful red- _

“What is this?” Okita hears someone say. It can’t be her; her voice isn’t that deep, but her lips move and the Caster in front of her inclines his head, a greeting.

“You were left on the battlefield for dead,” the Caster tells her. “We found you before your magical energy dissipated and brought you to the nearest safe location we knew.”

That isn’t right, Okita thinks. She remembers fighting; she remembers the enemy, the Archer and her rifles. Something about this feels wrong, but before she can think more of it, another of the people around her moves forward, holding out a katana.

“You dropped your sword out there.” The Assassin holds it out for Okita to take. She grasps it by the handle, moving to tuck it away, finds there’s no place on her clothing for her to slide it under.

“What do you want?” Okita demands, grip tightening on her weapon. “I doubt you rescued me out of pure good will.”

“The only thing we ask is for you to join us.” Caster gestures at the rest of his team. “We could use some fresh blood in our ranks.”

Something isn’t right. The feeling grows stronger the longer Okita considers it, but she’s grasping at nothing. What is there to doubt? She’s Okita Souji, member of the Shinsengumi, saved from the verge of death to come fight in an endless war.

“I’ll consider your offer.” Okita turns on her heels and heads for the mouth of the cave they’re standing in, ready to draw her sword at a moment’s notice. Her caution is unwarranted- the Caster makes no move to stop her, nor do any of his teammates.

“If you want to find us, we’ll be at the foot of the hills behind the old castle,” he tells her. Okita nods once, descending down the hillside and into the forest, her long hair swaying behind her.

“It worked,” Nobukatsu says blasely. “Maybe a little too well, actually.”

“I didn’t expect the alterations to her Saint Graph to include modifications to her memory,” Mitsuhide agrees. “But I suppose it was inevitable, given how Heroic Sprits sustain themselves off their legends.”

“How much do you think she remembers?” Kagetora steps up, twirling her spear idly. “I’d hate for her to remember that run-in I had with her and the Demon Archer and come after me for it.”

“Given how extensive the changes to her Saint Graph were, I’ll be surprised if she remembers that,” Mitsuhide says. “She does seem to recall the Demon Archer, at the very least. Unsurprising, if you think about it.”

“Then the plan’s still on?” Nobukatsu asks.

Mitsuhide nods. “If we did this correctly, she’ll see her former teammates as the enemy and go after them. Enough of that, and eventually she’ll wear them down, and that’s when we’ll take her Saint Graph, too. Nothing’s changed.”

“Then all that’s left to do is wait,” Rider says. “I’m going back to our base. Chasing her was way too tiring, and Lancer needs a rest after hauling her up here.”

Rider and her Lancer leave the cave, followed closely by a bored Kagetora, who looks as if she’d like nothing more to follow Okita through the trees and partake in the fighting to come. Nobukatsu shoots a glance at Mitsuhide, his lip curling in concern. “What about the real plan?” he mutters.

“As long as your sister is the one to find her, I don’t see why it wouldn’t work.” Mitsuhide smiles grimly and takes a deep breath, allowing himself a moment to bask in the irony of their situation. “Well, as Rider said, there’s not much left to do now. Shall we go wait for your sister to pay us a visit?”

“I give it a day,” laughs Nobukatsu. His ponytail whips around him, the flame at the end of it dancing with his mirth. Mitsuhide walks beside him, staring out over the forest, its calmness about to be shattered. They leave the pool of shining silver behind them, ignoring the hushed temptations it offers up, murmurings of granted wishes and realized dreams that vanish the moment they step into the sunlight.

* * *

Okita is gone. That’s the one thought occupying Nobunaga’s mind; Okita was supposed to be doing patrol rounds today, and now Okita is gone. Nobunaga paces in front of the gate, ignoring Okki’s concerned questions, her hands alternating between gripping her sword and folding across her chest.

“Archer.” Berserker walks over, dressed in his usual robe, his sword in hand and a stern expression on his face. “Assassin said you wished to speak to me.”

“It’s Okki!”

“Where’s Saber?” Nobunaga demands. “She was doing the rounds this morning, and she’s not back.”

“I haven’t seen her today.” Berserker scowls, considering Nobunaga. “You think something’s wrong.”

“Obviously!” Nobunaga jabs a finger out at the forest. “I’m going out there to look for her, and you’re coming with me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Cut the crap, Vice Commander.” Berserker’s eyes flare with anger, but Nobunaga doesn’t have any laughter to spare for her small victory. Every second here is one wasted not looking for Okita, and she’s been gone for long enough as it is. “If I tell Ruler, he’ll make you come with me anyway, so let’s just save ourselves the trouble and go!”

“Do not presume you can order me around, Demon King,” Hijikata snaps in reply, walking under the gate up to the edge of the treeline. “Where do you intend to start your search?”

“If she’s not back here, then it means she isn’t dead. In that case, most likely the enemy base.” Nobunaga lifts her rifle up to her shoulder, balancing it with the palm of one hand. “We’ll head that way and see if we find anything.”

The two of them wade out into the sea of trees and are quickly swallowed by them, lost beneath the shadows of leafy spires. In a way, it reminds Nobunaga of when she was younger, chasing the other youths from her town around the hills. She remembers how they’d move between the trees, following each other to see how long it would take before they were noticed, snapping off branches to brandish as swords. Now Nobunaga relies very rarely on her sword, but she still knows the sound of someone trying to move quietly through a forest, one accompanied by a growing feeling of being watched.

“Wait,” Nobunaga says, throwing out an arm to stop Hijikata’s advance. She holds the butt of her rifle to her shoulder, sweeping the barrel along the trees. “Something’s here.”

“Another Heroic Spirit?”

Nobunaga remains quiet, measuring her breaths, finger resting on her rifle’s trigger. She knows she’s not mistaken, but the stillness of the forest doesn’t lie to her. Perhaps she’s so worried about Okita that she’s letting that get to her- no, she knows that isn’t true. She knows, too, that she wishes it was, if only so it meant the familiar sounds coming from the forest around them are the fault of her imagination.

A rustling sounds from her right, and Nobunaga turns and fires in an instant, calling five more rifles to her and directing their shots into the brush. Her bullets ricochet wildly off the trees, partly masking the sound of running feet circling around her position. “There!” Nobunaga shouts, and Hijikata draws his sword in a single motion, watching for any sign of the enemy.

Nobunaga is expecting the attack when it comes, and it would seem that Hijikata had done the same. He doesn’t blink when a black and red blur bursts out from the trees, swinging his katana to meet the one coming down at him, showing no reaction other than a grunt of recognition. The same can’t be said of Nobunaga, her finger frozen on the trigger. She’d known from the first sounds who it was that she’d be fighting, but the person in front of her couldn’t possibly be Okita. This Okita’s hair falls far past her shoulders, nearly touching the bottom of her black coat. The similarities begin and end with her sword and the way she holds it, and were it not for that, Nobunaga wonders if she’d think she was fighting an Assassin instead.

“First Captain, what are you doing?” Hijikata barks at her. Okita leaps back, darts forward, has her strike deflected again. “Come to your senses. Don’t you remember Yamanami? The penalty for deserting the Shinsengumi is seppuku!”

Another clash of blades, this time accompanied by the sound of rifle fire. Nobunaga kneels in the dirt, her rifles spread around her, none of her shots striking true. Okita moves too quickly to be hit in even the best of cases, and the trembling in Nobunaga’s hands doesn’t help her any. “Souji!” she calls, “It’s me, Nobu! You remember, right? We’re fri- hey!”

Okita’s sword dances out at Nobunaga, who barely dodges back. Her rifle crumbles in her hands, turning into gold dust, and is quickly replaced with another. Nobunaga fires it, if only to give herself some breathing room. Hijikata joins her, pulling a pistol from his belt and leveling it at Okita, firing several shots that she leaps aside to avoid.

“Are you a coward as well as a traitor now, Okita?” he roars, discarding the emptied gun. “Why else would you abandon your comrades? Ah, don’t tell me- they found a way to cure you.”

“What?” Nobunaga’s head snaps up, staring at Hijikata. “How can you tell?”

“She’s faster,” Hijikata says. His shoulders are hunched, and a gash in his robe reveals a cut, fairly shallow, still filling with blood that trickles down his arm. “Barely, but faster.”

“Souji wouldn’t…”

Nobunaga shakes her head, not wanting to believe it. After everything they’ve done together, everything Nobunaga has told her, she wants to believe Okita wouldn’t abandon her just to breathe easier. No- she wouldn’t, Nobunaga thinks. She could understand if Okita left her behind, but not Hijikata. They’d known each other, fought under the same banner. Even if Okita could turn her back on Nobunaga, she wouldn’t leave the Shinsengumi without a fight.

“Is there any honor left in you, Okita?” Hijikata stumbles back, holding a bloodied hand to his torso. “No, if you’re this much of a coward, you wouldn’t have the strength to face your own death!”

What was it that Nobukatsu had said to her in that clearing, right before Okita had found them? _ Why can’t you accept that I’m trying to do what’s best for you, big sister? If you won’t see it that way, then I’ll just have to change that! _

“Archer, move!”

Nobunaga looks up, and Okita is right in front of her. The silver of her eyes pierces straight to Nobunaga’s soul, unspoken accusations lancing like knives through her chest. _ Why weren’t you there, _ they ask her, _ why did they come for me instead of you? _ And Nobunaga knows the answer all too well: it was the way things were in her time, after all. Why deal with someone directly when you could go after their family, their closest friends? Mitsuhide knew that all too well, and even in death, Nobunaga is a fool for underestimating him.

Okita’s sword sings through the air, heading for Nobunaga’s neck. She’s a skilled swordsman- she does not miss. Nobunaga’s seen Okita in action enough times to know dodging is futile, and the only thing she can do now is wait. So this is how Okita must have felt, only compounded into weeks, an end that she could see coming but couldn’t stop.

Her wait is mercifully short. For the second time in Okita’s memory, Nobunaga’s head topples from her shoulders, and her body sinks to its knees, disappearing into the earth. Okita flicks her sword to the side, wipes the blade of blood and the fragment of Saint Graph that’s caught in it. Archer is taken care of. One more left.

* * *

Nobunaga doesn’t wait to see if Hijikata comes back through the gates or not. She already knows he’ll be returning the same way she did- through the darkness and into a humid room. She sneaks out the back way, dodging Okki’s watchful eyes by hopping the fence, running through the forest with no regard for the branches that scratch at her face and arms. She has one thing in mind, and that is the ruined castle on the hill and what lays in its shadow.

She doesn’t need to run all the way there. Her first glimpse of Mitsuhide is of him rising from his seat atop the steps leading to the castle, nudging Nobukatsu with an elbow before beginning his descent. He’s swapped the traditional clothes Nobunaga knew him to wear for a European style suit embroidered with his family crest, a shameless display of his true identity. They meet her at the foot of the hills, standing one beside the other, waiting for Nobunaga to speak.

“I know you’re behind this,” Nobunaga says. Her eyes dart from her brother to her former retainer, glaring with such intensity that the fires of Honnouji threaten to pour forth from her to incinerate them all. The only thing holding her back is the reason she’d come here, the third silhouette she’d seen on the hill from afar. “What did you to her?”

“Nothing irreversible.” Mitsuhide smiles, calm and calculated. “You must know what we want, Nobunaga.”

“That’s what all this is about.” There’s no hint of a question in Nobunaga’s voice, only bitter resignation. “Getting me to your side. What difference will it make? If you wanted to even out the numbers, you could’ve taken anyone from my team.”

“Three Heroic Spirits from the same time period who knew each other, working in tandem?” Nobukatsu grins, his excitement palpable. “It’s never been done before! Can you imagine what we could accomplish? We could crush whoever we wanted, make our Saint Graphs unbeatable, rule wherever the battlefield takes us for the rest of time!”

“If you had used that ambition for something other than scheming against me when we were alive, that could have been our past.”

“Regrettable mistakes!”

“And you know Kagetora has it out for me, right?”

“That can be dealt with, once we’re all on the same side,” Mitsuhide says. “If we can get some civility out of even the Demon King, I’m sure Kagetora can be brought to see reason.”

“I’m only here because of what you did to Okita!”

“And if you want it undone, you’ll stay here. On our side.” Mitsuhide locks eyes with Nobunaga, no longer bothering to disguise the animosity in his voice. “We won’t expect you to fight her, but we will expect you to act as any member of our team would.”

“And then?”

“We wait until the Grail moves again,” Mitsuhide says. “Then I’ll tell you the rest of the plan.”

“You don’t let her remember this.” Nobunaga doesn’t falter, doesn’t allow herself to. Her conquest of Japan had been paved by loss and sacrifice, she tells herself, and what is one more? “And you don’t go after her like this again.”

“As long as you abide by our agreement.”

Nobunaga nods, and the next words leave her in a voice as cold as the night had been atop Mount Hiei in the moments before she’d ordered it lit ablaze. “Then let’s trade.”

* * *

Mitsuhide leads them past the town into the forest closer to Okki’s base, keeping a wide berth from where the other team’s patrols would run. “So is this why you didn’t attack us for so long?” Nobunaga asks on the way up. “You were looking for something?”

“Precisely.” Mitushide’s eyes narrow at the rise of the hills ahead, and Nobunaga wonders to herself, had he looked like this on the night she died?

“Must be something good,” she scoffs, the snapping of her cape with her rapid strides holding all the bite she wishes she could put into her voice.

Nobukatsu steps between them, hands held up at waist height, trying to soothe her. “You’re about to see for yourself, big sister,” he says, and it’s all Nobunaga can do not to call a rifle to her clenched fists and level it at his face.

Mitsuhide leads them on a winding route through the trees, taking them so far into the forest that the branches overhead block out the sun’s light. It’s in this darkness where the cave is found, a brief break in the canopy letting enough light through to illuminate the entrance. Okita is waiting there, pacing back and forth in front of the entrance, glaring at Nobunaga as she passes.

“Why did you bring Demon Archer?”

“It’s part of our agreement,” Mitsuhide says to her. “Don’t mind her.”

They pass Okita and walk further in, reaching the silver pool at the end. Nobunaga kneels at its edge, splaying her hands out over the surface. “What’s this?”

“As far as we can tell, it’s the center of the battlefield. The most distilled essence of the Grail that we’re fighting over. A place where it accumulates, until it’s time to move on again.” Mitsuhide joins Nobunaga at the edge, gazing into it. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

“It’s a magical puddle.”

“I guess that’s another way of looking at it.” Mitsuhide motions with his hand, calling Nobukatsu and Okita over. “Well then, let us begin.”

Mitsuhide moves faster than Nobunaga can follow, grabbing an arm and twisting it behind her back. She plunges headfirst into the pool, falling slowly into its depths. She turns towards the surface, trying to catch a glimpse of Okita, and is met with only a sprawling stretch of black.

This is for Okita’s sake, she thinks numbly to herself. In this place, even with the fire that is so innately Nobunaga’s, it’s hard to feel anything but cold. She lets her power seep into the space around her, trying to warm herself, and feels the torrent of it leaving her all at once.

_ Ran, don’t let them in. _Those are the last words of Oda Nobunaga known to human history, in themselves a summation of Nobunaga’s character. A simple command, spoken in solemn resignation. Nobunaga leaves behind none of her anger; she keeps that with her, and now it pushes up against her, consuming her like the fires had licked away at Honnouji. Now it rages mindlessly around her, howling at the Grail, at Mitsuhide, at her brother, and Nobunaga howls with it.

From above, another splash. Nobunaga reaches blindly into the darkness, a hand pushing up through it in the direction she knows Okita must be, searching for her. Her fingers brush something- a current in the pool, perhaps- rise up, and breach the surface. The weight of the water around her pulls it back down, drags her deeper in. It bears her to the bottom, and there she lays, buried beneath the heat of her own anger, filling the void with her grief until permeates every bit of her soul. Only then does the water release her, but by then her throat has long since given out, and nothingness is all she knows.

* * *

Okita’s head throbs as she opens her eyes. She’s back in her room at the base, staring at an unfamiliar collection of holes in the ceiling, through which the faintest hint of moonlight is streaming. It takes a moment for everything to come back to her- the fight against the other five Heroic Spirits, Kagetora’s spear coming down through her chest. She hadn’t died- she knows that much; there’s the faintest impression of being carried in a pair of strong arms covered in black, but with that memory comes another, Nobunaga and Hijikata arrayed against her, both of them bloodied and staring at her with wild eyes.

No, that has to be a bad dream. Okita sits up, pressing her palm to her forehead, and tastes iron on her tongue. Ah, a nightmare and a bout of illness. Those had been common in her final days, but that unhappy thought is quickly chased away by another as Okita’s eyes fall upon the small bag resting at her side. A shake confirms it: more of Nobunaga’s sugar candy. But Nobunaga isn’t on the watch tonight, Hijikata is.

Okita walks out into the night, and five faces turn towards her as one. Saber of Flowers shuffles to the side to admit Okita into their circle, standing around a small campfire that Okki’s thrown together.

“We didn’t expect you to wake up so soon,” Ruler says. “How do you feel?”

“My head hurts,” Okita replies, offering him a weary grin. “But I can still keep watch with Berserker.”

“There’s no need for that.” Saber frowns and tosses a wary glance over the fort walls. “The other team’s busy with their new addition.”

“Did Archer tell you anything about what she was planning?”

“What? No- what happened?”

“Archer’s gone to the other side,” Okki gazes down into the fire, watching its embers beginning to smolder and die. “We’ve been talking about it all night.”

“That can’t be true.” Okita looks from one teammate to the next, but she’s alone in her hope, and Hijikata shakes his head.

“Look.” He pulls back one side of his robe, baring his newest scar: an angry red mark that stretches across his chest. “Archer gave that to me earlier this afternoon. She knows two of the Heroic Spirits on the other side. Apparently she was close to them when she was alive.”

“But why-” Okita’s throat clenches, but it isn’t from her sickness. Her eyes burn, and she turns away from the fire, rubbing away the tears from smoke that never blew into her face.

“The numbers are even now,” Ruler sighs. “And Archer was powerful in her own way. We’ve gotten lax since we took the advantage, and that’ll all have to change now. Berserker, no more going out by yourself. We don’t need Archer taking more of your Saint Graph off you. The same goes for the rest of you.”

“Then what was…”

“Sakura Saber.” Ruler reaches over, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I know you were close to her. You can’t let that stop you, though. She won’t offer you the same courtesy.”

“I know,” Okita whispers. Her hands come up, digging into the fabric of her scarf, pressing it to her face. Nobunaga is gone; in spite of what she’d promised, Nobunaga is gone-

“I’ll take the watch with Okki tonight.” Saber of Flowers kicks some dirt onto the fire and rests her hands on her hips. “Let Saber and Berserker get their strength back before we put them back into rotation.”

“That’s fine by me.” Ruler starts back towards his hut, running a hand through his silver hair. “We’ll talk more about this in the morning.”

The circle dissolves, each Heroic Spirit heading their own separate way, leaving Okita staring down into the smoking remains of the fire. It doesn’t make sense. Nobunaga wouldn’t leave her, Nobunaga-

Nobunaga is right there. Okita freezes, staring at the distant shadow standing in on one of the trees, the telltale bands of a rising sun emblem adorning her head.

But Nobunaga is gone. Okita blinks, and the shadow is no longer there. It’s just her own wishful thinking, or else a remnant of the dream left over in her mind.

* * *

“See, back to normal. Just as I promised.” Mitsuhide watches Nobunaga slide down the tree trunk, catching herself on one of the last branches and leaping down beside him.

“You’re sure she doesn’t remember?”

“Not a thing. Berserker won’t remember anything, either. We convinced the Grail to change his memories when it was re-forming him.”

“Good.” Nobunaga’s gaze wanders back in the direction of the camp, her wistful eyes a sharp contrast to the sneer upon her face.

“I’ve kept my part of our deal, Nobunaga. And now-”

“I know. I’ll keep mine.”

“Excellent. Then shall we go, Demon Berserker?”

Nobunaga nods sharply, turning her back to the wooden fence and trailing after Mitsuhide. One hand dips into a pocket, plays around it, comes out with something dancing between white-dusted fingers.

“What’s that?”

“Konpeito. You want one?”

“I’m fine.” Mitsuhide suppresses a chuckle, but can’t keep an undignified smirk from gracing his face. “You always did have quite a sweet tooth.”

“Suit yourself.” Nobunaga reaches into the bag and pops a sugar candy into her mouth, grinding her teeth down on it. Somehow despite its sweetness, it only makes the bitter taste in her mouth that much stronger.


	2. 2 - 葉桜

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tradition says I update every 7 days but then I got 2 comments and I was like aww okay I'll post early  
Thank you commenters for the food

Okita goes through the ritual washing sequence with trembling hands. It takes her two tries to pour the water on her left hand, three for the right. She drops the scoop in the basin with a clatter, not even trying to continue. Why bother? Her body may be clean, but her mind isn’t. It couldn’t be, not after dying.

She can still picture it clearly in her mind. The sun, just over the horizon, bathes the valley in gold. The enemy Caster stands over her, a lick of flame darting in and out between his fingers like a serpent. She can’t see his face; his back is to the sun, but she knows he must be smirking. “You’re a bit too close for comfort, Sakura Saber,” he tells her. “Why don’t you go back to where you’re supposed to be?”

It’s not the sensation of burning that sends Okita catapulting up in her futon when she wakes back up- she’s used to that, in the sense that her body has put her through worse. No, the moment between her death and her reawakening is what scares her: the darkness, the whispers. It’s familiar and yet not, but a feeling of dread seizes her and drives her out into the falling night, away from the base provided to them by the old Caster and across the valley to the small cluster of hills at its center and the shrine atop them. It’s almost midnight, so none of the townspeople will be there, but the truce will still hold. That’s the one thing both teams agreed upon when they arrived, solidified into law with a reluctant handshake between Ruler and the enemy Caster: too many humans frequent the shrine, and so those hills are neutral, safe ground.

Okita climbs up the rest of the steps, glancing backward over her shoulder. From here, she can see the entire battlefield: her team’s base, two kilometers down the main road and tucked against the forest; the town that they all avoid; somewhere amidst the trees must be the enemy’s camp, but every time someone from Okita’s side has tried to follow them back, they never make it further than the rice fields before reappearing back in the base. Okita had thought she might be able to change that, but she was wrong- and now she’s here because of that.

Someone else is already at the shrine, kneeling in front of the offering box. They spin around at the sound of Okita’s sandals scraping the stone, cape whirling, the emblem on their hat flashing gold under the moonlight. Okita goes instinctively for her sword, freezing with her hand just over her hip.

It’s been months since Okita was this close to Nobunaga. The only times Okita sees her now are on the battlefield, brief glimpses of a girl clad in red running along the back lines of the fighting, relying heavily on her rifles and leaving the up-close fighting to her teammates. Okita had always hoped she could find Nobunaga alone, run into her on a patrol and speak to her again, a dream that shatters when she meets Nobunaga’s eyes and finds veiled affection replaced by indifference.

“The enemy Saber.” Nobunaga gets to her feet, dusting off her slacks. “Are you here to pray, or to kill me?”

_ Nobunaga, what are you doing? _Okita wants to say. She’s thought of this moment for so long, but here she falters. Her chest heaves; her knees sway beneath the weight of Nobunaga’s stare, and Okita realizes she’d thought so much about what to ask Nobunaga that she’d never considered what she would do when faced with her.

“If you were here to kill me, you’d already have done it,” Nobunaga muses. “So it isn’t that. Oh, don’t tell me- you’re here for a break.”

What would Nobunaga have done in this situation? Laugh, deflect, push back. Okita musters a tenuous smile and folds her arms over her chest, a weak imitation of Nobunaga’s once familiar stance. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here first?”

“Hm?” Nobunaga mulls over the suggestion with none of her usual fervor. With Okita, Nobunaga had loved talking about herself. She would’ve answered right away- “I guess there’s no harm in telling you. I died in a place like this, you see. I guess I was feeling sentimental tonight.”

“That’s it, Nobu?” Okita reaches out and grabs Nobunaga’s wrist, her grip too weak to hold Nobunaga still, but at least it’s contact. Her hand is swatted away, and fire flares behind Nobunaga’s eyes.

“Why are you calling me that?” spits Nobunaga. “I don’t remember you from my time. Who are you?”

Okita pushes away. “You know who I am,” she says. “Sakura Saber. Okita Souji.”

“Giving away your True Name to the enemy already?” Nobunaga laughs, lifts a hand and rests the palm of it on the pommel of her katana. “You must truly have a death wish.”

“You _ know _ me, Nobu!” Okita grabs the end of her scarf, holding it out in front of her. The golden flower stitched into the end flutters in the wind, a match for the crest on Nobunaga’s hat. “Don’t act like you don’t remember!”

Nobunaga leans forward, scrutinizing the scarf. “I don’t know who gave that to you, but it wasn’t me. I’d remember if I gave my retainers something like that.”

“I wasn’t your retainer.” Okita throws her scarf back, tucking it over her shoulder and pulling it over the lower half of her face. “You know what I was to you, Nobu.”

“If I was who you’re after, perhaps I would.” Nobunaga is nearly at the gate when she turns around, adding as an afterthought, “But you aren’t here because of that.”

“No,” Okita agrees. “I’m here because I died, and I don’t want to die again so soon.”

“I see!” Nobunaga exclaims, and there’s a hint of her in that smile, the thoughtful gesture of her hand. “In that case, return here tomorrow night, and allow me to entertain you!”

“I can’t,” Okita says. Tomorrow is her turn on the watch with Hijikata, and the enemy’s gotten bolder: no longer are the nights as calm as they once were, and more than once they’ve found themselves nursing wounds and waiting for whoever was on guard to come back while Okki maintains the perimeter.

“Is that so?” Nobunaga shrugs, already descending down the steps. “For someone who addresses me so familiarly, I thought you would accept.”

Nobunaga is gone by the time Okita rushes to the edge of the steps, glancing down to see which direction she’s gone in. By now she’s no doubt lost herself amidst the trees, waiting for Okita to leave before she returns to the enemy camp.

The offer is most definitely a trap. If the enemy team can get Okita away from the base, it won’t matter if she’s on neutral ground or not if her teammates are left wide open. It’ll be a hard fight for them and for Okki, but so far, Okki has yet to lose. The decision is an easy one to make in the moment, and only barely harder to justify to herself.

Okita refuses to let go of Nobunaga.

* * *

The next night, Nobunaga reaches the shrine before Okita does. She’s already got a shogi board laid out in front of her, all but one of the pieces in place, Nobunaga playing a game of balancing the final pawn on the back of her hand and trying to catch it without throwing it too high. The set itself is lacquered wood, maybe even older than Nobunaga.

“I found them in our base,” Nobunaga tells her. “I never played much, but I know the rules.”

“I never had time to play when I was alive, either.” Okita smiles, and it goes unanswered.

The game begins easily enough. Nobunaga concedes the first move to Okita, who proceeds to lay waste to her side of the game board. Nobunaga moves her pieces disjointedly, almost randomly, with no apparent strategy in mind. Okita sets her pieces down with obvious care. She trades bishops with Nobunaga, drops hers shortly after, and lays waste to Nobunaga’s front rank of pawns. Nobunaga doesn’t seem to care, no matter how many of her pieces Okita takes. When her king is surrounded, half by pieces that Okita dropped onto her side of the board, Nobunaga throws her hands up in mock surrender.

“I was always horrible at shogi,” Nobunaga confesses, and Okita glares at her. Oda Nobunaga was a sharp strategist, and would never have surrendered half as easily as Nobunaga does now. Nobunaga grins at her, feigning innocence. “Oh, do you want a prize for winning?” she asks. “I guess I might have something.”

Nobunaga reaches into her coat, and Okita’s hand twitches towards her katana. It’s alright- Nobunaga brings out not a weapon, but a small cloth bag, from which she extracts a single faceted piece of sugar candy.

“Here,” she smiles, and tosses it at Okita. “I don’t usually share my candy with others, so consider this a treat!”

“Just one?” Okita can’t help but ask.

“Do you know how much trouble I have to go through to get these?” Nobunaga tucks her bag away, picking up the board and sliding the pieces off into a bag of their own. “Consider yourself lucky you get even one. Of course, if you win again, I guess I’ll give you more.”

“Is that what I have to do just to talk to you now?” Okita hears the resentment seeping into her voice, makes no attempt to mask it. “What happened to not wanting to leave me?”

Nobunaga’s fingers flex restlessly around the corner of the shogi board, and Okita realizes that she’s not wearing her gloves anymore.

“Tell me, Saber- just who exactly are you hoping to meet up here?”

“My friend. Demon Archer. Nobu.”

“Ah, that’s going to be a problem.” Nobunaga glances up at the moon, then down into the valley, staring off at some distant point. “My team doesn’t have an Archer.”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m a Berserker.” Nobunaga’s teeth glitter in the moonlight, and Okita sees it now, sees the flicker of something wild and uncontrolled as an open flame dancing in Nobunaga’s eyes. “And you have somewhere to be.”

Nobunaga points. Okita’s whips around, and there are five shadows on the road out of town, moving slowly towards her base. She turns back, and all that greets her is pale moonlight: Nobunaga is already gone.

She doesn’t see Nobunaga again for the rest of the night.

* * *

“Your teammates must be really boring if this is what you have to look forward to every night,” Nobunaga says as she prods a lance forward. Okita frowns, peers at the board for a moment, and captures it with a knight.

“It’s something to do.” Nobunaga ventures forth with a pawn, and Okita answers in kind. No longer does she go for the easy win- that makes their games too short, and Nobunaga refuses to sit for any more than one, so she settles for matching Nobunaga’s advances and dropping captured pieces on the board, all to keep Nobunaga with her for as long as she can.

“I guess so.” Nobunaga flicks a bishop in front of her king, fending off Okita’s advance. “It’s that, or you really like being around Berserkers.”

“It didn’t use to be that way, _ Archer_.”

“Are you calling me that now instead of Nobu? That’s an improvement.”

Okita frowns and moves her silver general forward, capturing Nobunaga’s bishop. “Is it really?”

“A name that I don’t go by for a less personal name I don’t go by? I’d say so,” sniffs Nobunaga. She looks down at the board, and her smile broadens. “And you win again! That’s seventeen in a row, now?” Nobunaga laughs and pats her coat pockets. “I’m all out of candy today, sorry! I kind of ate the rest last night.”

“You don’t have to give me anything,” Okita sighs. “You’re the one that made up the rule about the winner getting something in the first place.”

“I want to!” Nobunaga declares. “It just one of those things you do. So, let’s see.” The shogi pieces vanish into their bag, placed there one by one by Nobunaga’s slender fingers. “How about… winner gets to ask the loser a question. And I guess I can stick around longer after this time, since it means I don’t have to give you my candy.”

It sounds too good to be true- more time with Nobunaga, the idea of being able to ask her anything. Okita watches her tie the bag shut and pick up the board, balancing it on her knees as she looks expectantly at Okita, waiting for her question.

There’s only one thing Okita _ can _ ask her- “Do you really not remember me?”

Nobunaga meets her eyes and grins. “Nope. Not at all.”

* * *

Seventeen matches becomes sixty. Their nightly games become a pale imitation of the skirmishes during the day: a series of victories that should fill Okita with some form of pride, but are ultimately meaningless. All they’ve done is pick off a few of Nobunaga’s teammates alone in the forest, making quick work of them and taking pieces of their Saint Graphs. It isn’t so much fighting as it is taking advantage of working in pairs, but every night Okita comes alone to the shrine to meet Nobunaga, waiting there for her with a shogi board on the steps.

Okita doesn’t bother with holding back any longer, and Nobunaga stays for three or four matches now, fending off Okita’s questions with noncommittal answers.

_ When did you get called by the Grail? _

_ Three or four months ago, I think? _

_ Why don’t I ever see you on the front lines if you’re a Berserker? _

_ Caster likes keeping me close. Kind of like you, now that I think about it. _

_ What is your team trying to do? _

_ I can’t answer that one, Saber! Ask me something else! _

Okita sighs and tilts her head back, listening to the gentle clicking of shogi pieces knocking against each other. What hasn’t she asked before? Nobunaga will answer anything that has to do with her life, but that isn’t what Okita is interested in. Okita’s fingers wind in her scarf, fidgeting with the ends. The golden flower gleams up at her, taunting her.

Nobunaga laces the sack shut and bends to pick up the board, only for something to drape over her shoulders. “Hey-” she begins, but Okita loops the scarf around her face, and Nobunaga goes still for a moment before curiously bringing her hand up to her neck. “Oy, what’s this, Saber?”

“You gave it to me,” Okita tells her, suppressing a shiver. She hasn’t felt the midnight breeze in such a long time, and now it tickles the back of her neck, sending a chill down her spine. “You said it was so my coughing didn’t give away my identity. I’m pretty sure everyone knows who I am by now, though, so you can have it back.”

“I didn’t tell anyone your True Name-”

“But your Assassin and Caster already know,” Okita says. “Keep it. Maybe someday it’ll help you remember everything. Who knows?”

“There’s nothing to remember,” protests Nobunaga. Okita is already on her feet, retreating down the shrine steps. She’ll be the one to leave first; she knows she can’t stay, if only because she can’t bring herself to deal with Nobunaga’s inevitable laughter, the same nonchalant smile that Nobunaga gives her every time Okita tries to tell her about something in the past. But this time, the memory will have to be hers; the scarf is hers, marked by the Oda’s crest upon it, and if Nobunaga denies that, then Okita doesn’t know what else there is she can do.

Okita makes it down to the second terrace before the urge to look back overwhelms her, and she gives in, glancing back up at the shrine. Nobunaga is still sitting on the top step, the shogi board on the ground and the bag with the pieces atop it. A fire licks up from the palm of one of her hands, arcing into the night sky, snapping at stars it can only dream of reaching.

* * *

“You’ve been spending too much time with that Sakura Saber.”

Mitsuhide blows a cloud of smoke out into the evening cold and goes back for another drag from his pipe. To his left, Nobukatsu imitates him, stuttering out a few coughs. Neither Mitsuhide nor Nobunaga spare him more than a pitying glance, and Nobukatsu puts out his pipe, shaking the ashes out over the side of the walkway. He, unlike his sister and her retainer, isn’t one for smoking.

“It’s fun,” Nobunaga says, shrugging. Mitsuhide had found out about her shogi matches on the week she’d suggested them, and Nobunaga suspects the only reason he allows them to continue is one of pure pragmatism. This way, he knows where an enemy is every night, and he gets to sideline the unreliable Nobunaga in the process. Smoke curls up from her lips as Nobunaga laughs, tapping her pipe against the wooden boards. “And it’s a nice distraction. It’s not like this plan of yours is going anywhere, Micchi.”

“It relies on us finding where the grail’s power is centered, something that we haven’t done yet.” Mitsuhide raises an eyebrow sharply. “And might I add that your nightly meetings aren’t doing anything to help us find it.”

“I’ve been looking during the day, okay? Besides, if I keep meeting up with Saber, her team will be too busy worrying that I’m trying to get her to come over and not think about what we’re trying to do.”

Nobunaga and Mitsuhide raise their pipes to their mouths again, more smoke drifting off into the wind. Nobukatsu keeps the mouthpiece of his pipe between his lips, as much as to keep up the appearance of their partnership as to mull over the scent of the smoke. If Nobunaga has her shogi matches with Okita, then this is what they have- sitting on the wooden walkway outside their rooms, sharing a smoke together.

“The progression of our plan hinges entirely on finding it, Demon Berserker.”

“And what is that, exactly?” Nobunaga lets another breath escape into the chilling air. “You never told me what it entailed. For all I know, you’re planning to dunk me again and see if you can get a Saber out of me.”

“You’d be the most outclassed Saber in the history of this conflict, big sister,” Nobukatsu chuckles.

“The plan is simple,” says Mitsuhide. “Once we find the pool, we get Lancer to lure one of our enemies there. The rest of us will force them to enter it, and it’ll alter them much like it did yourself. Then, we’ll have a decisive advantage in numbers. We’ll use that to engage the enemy and overrun them, take their Saint Graphs, wait for the Grail to summon more, and repeat that cycle.”

“Sounds pretty much like what we’re doing right now,” Nobunaga scowls. “Just with one more person on our side and slightly reduced chances of us all getting killed. Why is this so important to you that you’ve got all of us out looking for it?”

“The other Heroic Spirits agreed to my plan quite readily, Berserker.” Mitsuhide sets his pipe down, the remains of its contents smoldering weakly. Upending it, he dumps the ashes onto the grass, grinding them down with the heel of his boot. “They quite like the concept of continuing to live, with the added bonus of accumulating more strength.”

“Yeah, we’re all thrilled.” Nobunaga purses her lips, tries to blow a smoke ring. It drifts downwind and hits Mitsuhide squarely in the face, to which he has the dignity to look unrattled. “We both know that’s not it, so spill already, Micchi.”

“Astute as always.” Mitsuhide folds his arms across knees, letting his shoulders slouch. This is the lowest his guard will ever be, in the moments when their pipes are burning their last embers and all their talk has dwindled with it, or else sharpened itself into pointed questions. “Very well- consider this my apology for my betrayal of you. It isn’t the whole of Japan, but it’s close. The battlefields will change, and we will walk them for as long as this phenomenon exists, the most powerful entities alive in this land. Do you understand now, Berserker?”

“When you put it like that?” Nobunaga inhales from her pipe one last time and turns its embers out onto the ground, watching them flicker and smother in the dirt. “Perfectly.”

“I’m glad you see it that way.” Mitsuhide inclines his head to Nobunaga and Nobukatsu, rising and dusting off his suit. “I’m going out looking while the enemy is in their base. We haven’t checked the lands around there well.”

“Don’t come back whining to me when they send you back here,” scoffs Nobunaga. “Saber’s back with them by now.”

“I’ll be sure not to call attention to myself.” A muttered incantation, and Mitsuhide disappears effortlessly from view, becoming a trick of the light revealed briefly in the gaps between the clouds passing over the moon. His footsteps sound on the wooden boards, quickly mingling into the ambient sounds of the night.

“He creeps me out sometimes, big sister,” Nobukatsu says as soon as Mitsuhide is gone. “I don’t know how you put up with him.”

“I didn’t, towards the end.” Nobunaga kicks her legs back and forth before putting her hands behind her back and laying down against the walkway, mouth twisting into a frown. “Maybe that’s why he turned on me back then.”

“You still don’t like being on the same side as him?”

“I’ve accepted it. It can’t be helped, after all.” Nobunaga turns her head, bringing Nobukatsu up in her periphery. “He seems to be fine with it, but I know he’s not the one who wanted me here, Katsu. He’s probably known who I am since the first time he saw me on the battlefield, and he kept his distance.”

“Ah, guilty as charged. Nothing gets past you, big sister.”

“Why did you want me here so badly? So we could talk about our fond childhood memories?”

“Is it wrong of me to want to spend some time with my sister?”

“Considering what you did when you were alive, I’d say so.”

“That? Well…” Nobukatsu grins sheepishly, a weak laugh shaking his shoulders. “I did say it was a mistake.”

“And this is your way of atoning for it?” Nobunaga’s tone has no bite, but the cold ring of accusation lingers beneath the surface. She drums her fingers on the hilt of her katana, drinking in the uncomfortable silence between them, watching every nervous shift of Nobukatsu’s face.

Finally, he clears his throat. “You were letting yourself be held back,” he says quietly. “You still are. On that side, it was Saber. Here, it’s Caster. I know you don’t care about his plan, so why are you still here?”

“Aside from the fact that I’ve killed almost all of my former teammates about a dozen times?” Nobunaga laughs.

“I meant allied with anyone at all!” Nobukatsu leans forward, peering down at Nobunaga. “You didn’t use to let things like tradition hold you back, so why are you staying with one team or another? Why not just go off on your own? Let Caster have his plan, and once it’s done and you’ve taken enough Saint Graphs, you can leave! And if you ever do that, I’ll follow you, big sister. You know I want you to succeed, right?”

“Is that so?” Nobunaga sits upright, rolls off the side of the walkway so she’s standing in the grass. “Well, I suppose I could expect an offer like that coming from you.”

“Then you’ll think about it?”

“I will.” Nobunaga stretches, empty hands and splayed fingers reaching towards the sky. “I’m going to get some rest, Katsu. You should too, or you can help Caster look for his magical puddle.”

“Will you ever not call it that?”

“It is what it is!” Nobunaga grins, throwing a quick wave over her shoulder. “Good night, whatever you end up doing.”

“Yes, good night.”

Nobunaga keeps her smile plastered to her face until she’s safe in the confines of her own room, the sliding door shut behind her and bearing the heat of her narrowed eyes, which stare past the thin paper barrier and at Nobukatsu’s shadow, motionless in the courtyard. Her hand relaxes against her sword, but only just: she imagines it driving through Nobukatsu’s chest, a more personal but definite end than the death he’d had at her hands. No impersonal press of a rifle barrel to a forehead, just the bite of metal through flesh and Nobukatsu being close enough to see the disappointment in Nobunaga’s eyes.

No, just a single death would be too generous. Nobunaga flings herself onto her futon, staring up at the ceiling. If she could have her way, Nobukatsu would pay for his scheming; he would have his regret burned into his Saint Graph by Nobunaga’s fire, and only then would she begin to consider dismantling it, piece by piece, for Mitsuhide to have, only to start the process again on him. What’s in the past is just that, only a memory of a burning castle and a burning temple, their betrayals from hundreds of years ago paling compared to the treachery they’ve enacted now. They took Okita from her; took her from Okita. Nobunaga still remembers those golden eyes piercing her, filled with a hatred that should never have a place on Okita’s face, the unique agony of having one’s throat run through before the gentle darkness settled over her-

But none of that matches what Nobunaga feels when she lies to Okita, the feeling of her own fire consuming her from the inside whenever Okita’s smile stretches into a thin line, her only means of masking her true emotions. Nobunaga knows it from her time spent with Okita, and their meetings at the shrine have made it all too familiar to her. It is the only thing of Okita’s that Nobunaga could claim to hate, and even then, that’s not quite true. She could never hate Okita, but she can hate herself, and hate the lies that leave her as easily as bullets from a rifle, each one wearing away at Okita just a little more.

The Berserker in Nobunaga stirs, a rumbling from deep within her Saint Graph, and suddenly Nobunaga understands. She is from a period just like this: one of endless war, of families and friends being torn apart by it. And she would have ended it; if it weren’t for Mitsuhide, she could have put an end to the fighting, just as her successors did. Nobukatsu and Mitsuhide are right, in their own ways. With the advantage of numbers, perhaps they’ll finally overpower the enemy. With enough power, there’s no need for Nobunaga to rely on others: she’ll sweep over everyone in her path, just as she did in her lifetime, with the only choices being to yield or die. United under her banner, this conflict can finally come to an end.

Or, perhaps she doesn’t need to wait. The center of the grail’s power, the catalyst of Mitsuhide’s plan, is still out there. If Nobunaga can find it first…

She looks out into the empty courtyard, listens for any break in the stillness around her. When she hears nothing, she slowly slides her door to open, just wide enough for her to slip through and shut it once again. There’s another place Mitsuhide hasn’t looked, if only because it’s considered Nobunaga’s territory among their team, in no small part thanks to Nobunaga threatening to shoot Nobukatsu if he followed her up to the shrine.

Nobunaga sets off into the darkness, her eyes murderous and sharp, nearly glowing in the moonlight. Her path is marked at first by the sweet scent of the pipe lingering on her clothes, and then the bitter taste of burnt ash, a trail that if followed would lead to Nobunaga, marching on the shrine with a rifle clenched in her hands and the fervent hope that someone will come along so she can take part of their Saint Graph, and burn the rest.

* * *

The next week is filled with close encounters and more exchanges of Saint Graphs. Evil Wind and Saber of Flowers come across Rider and her Lancer, and when the combatants on both sides have woken up, they’ve swapped bits of their Saint Graphs with no one emerging a clear victor. Mitsuhide, in a rare occasion, is ambushed by the opposing Demon Berserker and carved to bits. Whether Kagetora’s night raid the next day is retaliation or not, no one can tell, but she loses a part of herself in exchange for bringing home a bit of everyone there except Okki, and she smiles for days about it.

The surge in activity makes Mitsuhide cave and order his team to start traveling in pairs. Rider refuses to travel with anyone who isn’t Lancer, and Mitsuhide selects Nobukatsu- which leaves Nobunaga with no doubts about why Mitsuhide has a title like ‘the Thirteen-Day Shogun’, if his insight is really that lacking.

“I can’t believe we agree on this,” Kagetora complains from beside Nobunaga.

“I’d say yes, but that would mean agreeing with you again,” Nobunaga laughs, loud and forced.

“I thought Casters were supposed to be good at strategy.”

“Strategy, yes! Tactics, not so much. Why do you let him stay in charge, anyway?”

“No one cared enough to challenge him. Rider’s fine as long as she has Lancer, and Caster is no pushover either-” Kagetora stops suddenly, holding her lance out in Nobunaga’s path. “Wait,” she says, her other hand going to the sword at her waist. “Someone’s coming.”

“How many?” Nobunaga calls a rifle to her hands, lifting it to her shoulder.

“More than one. Hide.”

It’s too late for that- a pistol shot rings out, Nobunaga barely ducking behind a tree in time. Kagetora spares her an amused glance, drawing her katana and holding her weapons out to her sides, slowly advancing towards the source of the sound.

“You’re awfully close to our territory for it being daytime.” Nobunaga recognizes the low rumble of Hijikata’s voice, and her stomach drops out from under her. There was only one person on their team who could stomach being Demon Berserker’s partner for long.

“Berserker, now!” Kagetora shouts. Nobunaga leans out from behind cover, a line of rifles spreading out behind her. Her first glimpse of the enemy proves her fears correct: Hijikata is there in his black robe, his sword already drawn, but so is Okita, only just reaching for her katana, the faintest hint of muddied red lining the top of her kimono. Nobunaga’s rifles fire all at once, and Kagetora rushes in, drawing her lance arm back and to stab at Okita.

Hijikata steps between them, and the forest resonates with the sound of their weapons meeting. “Saber, get Berserker!” he orders, twisting his blade against Kagetora’s spear in his attempts to stab her with its point.

“Understood.” There’s none of Okita’s usual enthusiasm in her tone, just a cold and dutiful acknowledgement. Nobunaga leaps up into a tree, breaking Okita’s line of sight, and hears the sound of someone running after her. Nobunaga runs out onto a thick branch, jumping back over the fight, calling her rifles to her and firing down at Berserker from her vantage point before landing in another tree and jumping to the next. Okita follows her from the ground, katana out and aimed uselessly over her head at a target that refuses to come down and meet her.

“Saber!” Hijikata shouts again. Okita looks up, realizes she’s somehow managed to flank Kagetora, charges her with her sword raised. A spray of bullets cuts her path off, and there’s Nobunaga again, leaning out from between a gap in the trees to direct her fire. “I know you can take care of her. Do it already!”

“She’s too fast,” Okita protests. Her voice is level, but her sword betrays the tremor in her hands, and Okita’s attempt to dart towards a tree is likewise cut off by even more bullets whizzing around her, some coming close enough to graze the loose sleeves of her clothing. Another burst of bullets: Hijikata stumbles back, fending off both Kagetora’s wild strikes and Nobunaga’s sporadic fire, which seems to come from all directions. The second Demon Berserker herself is barely visible against the trees, a dark shadow popping in and out of the leaves to aim- but she keeps herself at the same elevation, Okita notices, and a plan takes hold in her mind.

Okita dances around the edge of Hijikata and Kagetora’s clash, darting in to draw Nobunaga’s fire, retreating back to the unspoken boundaries of their fight. Her sword slashes through the air when she does, hacking at the branches over her head, sending them crashing down beside her. On her sixth swing, there’s a grunt of surprise above her. Nobunaga hits the ground hard, rifles clattering around her before disappearing in wisps of golden dust, and Nobunaga herself lays prone for a moment, the wind knocked out of her.

Okita’s hand trembles around the wrap of her sword. She lowers it at Nobunaga, the point wavering between her head and her chest, jolts it back when Nobunaga grunts and pushes herself up off the dirt to roll onto her back.

“Saber!” Hijikata’s voice rings clearly over the sound of clashing metal and Kagetora’s own fierce shouts. “What are you waiting for?”

Okita doesn’t answer him. She has no answer; all she can think of is the dazed look on Nobunaga’s face and the memory of seeing it once before: Nobunaga equally as vulnerable as she is now, but with her hand pressed to Okita’s cheek rather than the cold metal of a rifle.

“Saber-” Hijikata starts towards her, only for Kagetora to cut him off, attacking in tandem with her spear and sword. “Have you gone soft, Saber? When did the Shinsengumi begin to hesitate in the face of the enemy? If you have any reservations, leave them off the battlefield!”

“I-” Okita’s grip on her sword tightens, and she steps closer to Nobunaga, raising the blade over her. The light of awareness has returned to Nobunaga’s eyes, but only just; Okita could strike now, and she would still be defenseless. She could kill Nobunaga now, and take down Kagetora with Hijikata, but that would be admitting to herself that _ her _Nobunaga is gone, will never come back, or maybe was never this Nobunaga after all-

“Are you Shinsengumi or not?” Hijikata roars at her. Okita looks away, and when she looks back, Nobunaga is staring at her, fully aware. There’s no reservation in her eyes, none of the anger that Okita has seen in every other Heroic Spirit she’s slain. It’s as if she’s waiting for Okita to arrange the pieces on her side of the shogi board, patiently waiting to field another defeat-

Nobunaga flips herself over and scrambles away, leaving Okita staring blankly where she once lay. “How disappointing,” she hears Hijikata say. “When we get back, we’re going to have a talk- Saber!”

Okita looks up, and Kagetora is almost upon her. Hijikata is right behind her, his sword brought back to cut, but he won’t get there in time. Kagetora is too close; the point of her spear is at Okita’s stomach, and Okita can already taste the iron on her tongue-

A hundred rifles sound at once. The forest in front of Okita disappears, shredded by the constant barrage that knocks Hijikata to the ground, continuing to pepper him with bullets and shrapnel. A few projectiles find their way towards Kagetora, curve around her, and veer off into the forest, smacking into trees and sending chips of wood flying. “Berserker!” Okita cries, but her voice is lost in the thundering of the rifles, and there’s nothing to be done. She can already see the golden smoke drifting up from his body, and with a furtive glance at the treeline, she turns and runs. The barrage of fire stops a moment later, and she expects to hear the crunch of her pursuers behind her, coming to kill her too.

No one follows Okita, but she runs anyway. She runs until she’s back inside her room, not stopping for Okki at the gate, where finally she lets herself drop to her knees, coughing violently into her hands. The tang of blood against her tongue brings a sharp prickle to her eyes, and that is how she waits for Hijikata to come back: surviving one attack, enduring the next, dreading the one to come.

* * *

When the firing stops, Kagetora wheels on Nobunaga, holding the lance to her throat. “Did you really just shoot me?” she snarls, jabbing the spearhead at her.

“Hey, relax!” Nobunaga drops her last rifle at her feet, holding both hands up. “None of them were gonna hit you anyway, right? I got Berserker!”

“I’ve seen you fire.” Kagetora’s eyes narrow at her. “You don’t miss that wide.”

“I just fell eight feet from a tree and hit my head. Sorry if I was a bit off. If you really want, you can have Berserker’s bit of Graph. Will that make you feel better?”

“Partially.” Kagetora walks over to Hijikata’s fading body, plucking at the pieces of his Saint Graph that fractured off under Nobunaga’s barrage. “But I think we’d all appreciate it if you quit playing around with that Saber and attempting to reenact your campaigns with wooden toys.”

“Ah, you know, too?”

“Caster made sure everyone knows, just in case you try anything.” Kagetora glares at Nobunaga, inhaling sharply as Hijikata’s fragments begin to settle and mix with her own. “In case you decide to take a lesson from the retainer who bested you.”

“Did he tell you the rest of the plan, too?” Nobunaga asks, and Kagetora nods. “Then you should know we’re going to be getting our hands on the rest of their Saint Graphs in the end, so why bother worrying about it now? We’re just wasting our energy fighting them, and if they manage to kill us, it’ll be more work when we finally make our move.”

“So you’d have us sit on the sidelines and wait rather than take the risk to seize an early victory?” Kagetora scoffs. “Coward. No wonder you lost to me.” The rest of Hijikata’s body dissolves into golden mist, and Kagetora sheaths her sword, turning and heading back towards their base. “The enemy knows we’re here now, thanks to you letting Saber escape. We’ll have to go back and report this investigation a failure.”

“You can go back and tell Caster that.”

“I’m not taking your fall for you, Oda.”

“Then don’t. Tell Caster whatever you want. I’m staying out here and looking.”

“When you come back dead, don’t whine that I left you alone.” Kagetora balances her lance against her shoulder, moving off into the forest. “Caster told us to work in pairs, after all.”

“And we both think he’s an idiot, so go tell him that!” Nobunaga shoots back. Kagetora doesn’t bother reacting to that, and then she’s gone, leaving Nobunaga surrounded by fallen branches and fragments of trees and the sun glinting down on her from above like the edge of Okita’s blade.

* * *

Okita is, surprisingly, exactly on time. She trudges up the steps and sits down in front of the board without a word, sliding a pawn forward to open their game. She doesn’t respond to any of Nobunaga’s idle chatter, simply alternating between staring at the board and staring down into the valley, her moves even more erratic than Nobunaga’s, the lift of her hand listless and slow. Somehow, she still wins, and unlike herself, her questions are pointed, precise.

“Why did you shoot at Kagetora?”

“Ahh, so you know who she is? I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you, then- she’s got this ability that makes bullets go around her. I knew I wouldn’t hit her if I did.”

“Why did you shoot Berserker?”

“Did you forget, Saber? We’re still enemies.”

“Then why do you keep playing with me every night?”

“Because it’s fun! If you don’t think it is, you don’t have to keep coming here.”

The fourth game is their last game. Nobunaga has never stayed for longer than four games, and she makes no indication that she will tonight, even if these games are painfully short in spite of Okita’s reckless maneuvers. As usual, Nobunaga’s king finds itself cornered by Okita, although her usual showing is halved by the lack of dropped pieces: Okita hasn’t dropped anything all night, Nobunaga notes, and wonders if maybe she’d been trying to lose all along.

“Hey, before you say anything,” Nobunaga says. “I’ve got an offer for you.”

“What is it?”

“How about instead of you asking me a question, I give you a surprise?”

“What kind of surprise?”

“I can’t tell you!” Nobunaga grins, fails to get a reaction from Okita. “It’s a secret. But you’ll like it, I think. You’ll have to close your eyes before I can show you.”

“How do I know you won’t just betray me?” Okita asks.

“The shrine’s neutral ground, remember?” Nobunaga laughs and sweeps the shogi pieces from the board into their bag, tying it shut and tucking it away in her coat. “Besides, if I’d wanted to kill you, I could’ve done it earlier today. But I don’t, because I like having something to do at night besides being stuck with Lancer. Or if you really don’t trust me, you can just ask me your question and get this over with.”

Okita mulls it over for a while, staring at the pitted stone steps, Hijikata’s words echoing in her ears. Showing mercy to the enemy was weakness; if she was going to falter on the battlefield, she could steel herself or leave, and if she was going to leave then she might as well commit seppuku. Okita squeezes her eyes shut, gives the slightest nod of her head. Whatever surprise Nobunaga might have, even if it’s a practical joke, it would be better than her vice-commander’s angry voice plaguing her mind.

Something warm brushes her lips, slow and soft. Okita’s eyes fly open. Nobunaga is right there, hands pressed to the stone between them, eyes shut as she kisses Okita. It’s so very like Nobunaga, and yet so different: the Nobunaga that Okita knows would have touched her, preferred short kisses to one prolonged one, wasn’t afraid to challenge Okita to want more. This kiss feels almost timid, and when Nobunaga pulls away, the look in her eyes is the same as ever, one of amusement rather than the recognition Okita has always hoped to find in them one day.

“Why?” Okita asks her. Something is welling up in her chest, not the sickness, but just as hated. It’s impossible, giving up on Nobunaga; her hesitation in the clearing had confirmed it, and Nobunaga’s kiss has sealed it. No matter how many times Nobunaga may claim they are enemies, how easy it would be to accept that, Okita knows that will never be true to her.

“Why not?” Nobunaga picks up the board, gets to her feet. “I felt like it,” she says, and heads down the stairs before Okita can say anything else.

She does not turn around once she walks away, not for the wind that tempts her to look back, sounding so much like Okita’s labored breathing, not for the burning in her own chest that threatens to consume her. As always, she does not tell Okita the truth: that a year ago, at a river far from here, the Demon Archer and Sakura Saber had met for the first time.

* * *

Nobunaga is early for what will be something like their 400th match. Okita had chosen long ago to give up keeping track of a winning streak as meaningless as the questions she asks of Nobunaga, but still she finds herself being drawn back every night. How could she afford not to, when the ghost of Nobunaga will haunt her regardless? Her hands have never stopped clutching at a scarf she’d long since given up, and her stomach does flips in front of a futon she knows she’s only ever dreamed of sharing.

Nobunaga likes to wait for the sun to go down before starting out towards the shrine. The brief time in which the moon has yet to ascend to its apex in the sky is the best time to travel, she’d mentioned to Okita before. Less of a chance of being seen- and yet here she is, in broad daylight, a dark shadow against the pale grey of the shrine’s steps, and Okita can’t tell whether Nobunaga is playing with the shogi pieces as always, or looking out in Okita’s direction.

Evil Wind and Ruler have the watch tonight, and so Okita finds herself drawn to the shrine, traveling along the edge of the forest until it gives way to a patch of rugged stone, and from there she begins to climb. From here, it’s clear what Nobunaga is looking at: her gaze is drawn aimlessly over the horizon, taking in the orange fire of the setting sun and the shadows it throws into the valley.

“You’re here early,” Okita says as she mounts the final steps, sitting down opposite Nobunaga. This is the closest she’ll get to being back at Nobunaga’s side, she’s always thought, but that too is different today. Nobunaga shuffles her weight, moving herself down a step or two, leaning back against the top step to watch Okita make her move. “What brought this on? Your team planning something?”

“Questions come after you win, Saber.” Nobunaga exchanges their quick, traditional opening of shuffling pawns before sliding a lance forward. Okita’s finger hovers over her pieces- Nobunaga rarely moves anything but her pawns until one is captured, and even then, it’s rarely a lance- and replies in kind.

Ten moves later, Nobunaga closes in on a bishop. She drops it immediately, and does not give Okita one in return.

Another few moves, and Okita’s silver general is encircled, taken, turned. Nobunaga’s pieces stretch well into her side of the board, but there’s an opening: her knights advance, and Nobunaga seems to falter.

Then Nobunaga’s gold general slides in front of Okita’s king, and with a gentle press of wood to wood, Nobunaga flicks the piece off the board, sending it spiraling down several stairs. “That’s game,” she says, a wry little smile on her face.

“Yeah, it is.” Okita glances over the board one last time, and wonders if this is what Nobunaga must have seen all those times she’s lost to Okita- or more likely, let Okita win. “I knew you were holding back this whole time,” she laughs, turning and kneeling on the stairs to reach her fallen king. “So what do you want as your prize?”

Nobunaga doesn’t answer. Something clicks audibly behind Okita, too sharp to have come from the shogi board. Something cool brushes against the back of Okita’s neck, like the evening breeze, and the air is filled with a keen scent that Okita feels she should know. It reminds her of running water, the coolness of it on her skin and the fresh air passing by her; of the moment before all that is shattered by the tang of stale iron upon her tongue and the acrid stench of sulfur.

Okita’s legs tense, and that’s as far as she gets. The stones rise up to meet her, and she sinks with the river into the black.

* * *

Their kiss was a mistake. Nobunaga weighs the shogi board in her hands, feels it strain under her grasp. She could snap it easily, throw it off into the forest and let it be lost, or deliver it to the enemy base as a sort of parting gift. She won’t do that, though: as much as it pains Nobunaga to throw out lie after lie, to weather each of Okita’s wounded glances, she could give this up as easily as Okita could abandon her faith in Nobunaga. And as for Nobunaga- she admits it; she was lonely. Enough of her dreams had followed her into her waking moments for her to want to make them a reality, and yet that brief kiss has only doubled the roar of the longing within her, a second fury raging within her to rival her fire.

Nobunaga grunts, kicks at a rock in her path, which spirals off into the trunk of a nearby tree. There’s no satisfying crack of stone on wood, no rustle as the stone drops back to the ground. The whole forest has gone still- even Nobunaga’s tread doesn’t rustle the dead leaves covering the earth below her, and the glimmering of the moon overhead seems strangely frozen, the clouds that cover it locked in place and yet not obscuring its light.

Nobunaga creeps forward cautiously, holding the shogi board over her shoulder. It’s no rifle; throwing it won’t get much of a reaction from any other Heroic Spirit other than a puzzled look, but hey, she’s Nobunaga, and it wouldn’t be like her not to use anything she has on hand as a weapon.

But her caution is unwarranted. No one else is near, and Nobunaga emerges into what she can only describe as a clearing that shouldn’t exist: the trees that ring it have been cut perfectly to create a clear, circular space over a glittering pool of liquid silver that reflects not the moonlight, but only Nobunaga as she approaches.

Nobunaga sets the shogi board down on the ground, approaching the pool on shaky knees. Unwittingly, she’s found it. The air around her hums with energy, fills itself with whispers that Nobunaga can’t make any sense of, but that tug at her regardless. She finds herself approaching the pool, kneeling at the edge of it, spreading her hands just over its surface. Her own bewildered face stares back at her, missing a hat, and something twinges deep inside her, a memory of her Saint Graph being warped from that of an Archer’s into something far darker, and driven by anger.

“What do you want?” The words leave Nobunaga’s mouth before she can stop them, and immediately she realizes how stupid she’s being. Talking to a pool of magical energy is a new low, even for her- no, not quite; that would honestly be Mitsuhide and Nobukatsu.

Something flashes in her vision, a sharp spike of color. It lingers for only a second, but Nobunaga can see it clearly in her mind: lines of gold covering a forest, converging on this single spot, a tapestry that with every death grows closer to completion; at the center of it all, a nexus of power so vast that reality itself would bend under it.

Nobunaga knows that’s too good to be true. A wish of such caliber would be sure to change the path this reality would take. Something narrowed down to just twelve Heroic Spirits, though- Nobunaga’s eyes glisten in the shine of the pool. “And what will it take to end this?”

Another image, rolling slowly over Nobunaga’s vision. Eleven Saint Graphs, wound thick like chains around her hands, submerged in silver. An impossible task- but not if the supply of magical energy was stripped away, if the Grail withheld its blessings for a single night, briefly enough to go unnoticed, long enough for a dedicated Heroic Spirit to go about their work.

An end to the fighting. A wish wrought by by Nobunaga’s own hands. That’s how it will always have to be, Nobunaga thinks- no one should ever have what they want simply given to them; that’s why she went on her rampage across Japan, a monstrous campaign to end an era of constant war.

Nobunaga winces, an unwanted pulse of energy rippling through her skull. The land before her is covered again by the lines of Saint Graphs; she recognizes hers running beneath her feet; Okita’s running a long swath between the hills and the enemy base; the roving patterns of Nobukatsu and Mitsuhide’s, spread out across the battlefield, both theirs and the others spiraling into smaller and smaller circles, slowly gravitating towards the place where Nobunaga stands.

“I understand,” she murmurs. The pool beneath her reverberates with her words, ripples spreading from its center. “In half a week’s time. You know what I want.” Nobunaga plunges her arms into the pool, reaching for her reflection, as if to wrap her hands around its throat and wring her wish from them. Lightning courses back through her, clawing at her Saint Graph, and Nobunaga feels the shift occur in her, a subtle change that even she’d be hard-pressed to notice. Her hands spasm of their own accord, grasping at nothing, and then it’s over: the burning in Nobunaga’s chest that even her own fire couldn’t begin to compare to is gone, and the accord with the Grail has been forged.

With the other Heroic Spirits gone, there will be no conflict. Nobunaga rises, silver falling from her fingertips, and starts back into the forest, letting herself soak in the sudden sound of boots crushing leaves and the calling of cicadas. She will visit upon Mitsuhide and Nobukatsu what she’s longed to give them for months now; she will give to Okita the only gift she can, the death that she could never achieve in life. Now, the only question is how.

Nobunaga stops briefly, picking up the shogi board and dusting off its surface. The answer is here, cradled in her hands, the last thing tying the Demon Archer and Sakura Saber together. Nobunaga will show her a side that Okita hasn’t seen before, let her bask in it, think of what’s to come. It would be more than Okita had in life; it will be nothing compared to what Nobunaga wishes she could have given her, and swears then to herself that she’ll visit the difference upon Mitsuhide and her brother in iron and fire.

* * *

Nobunaga watches Okita sprawl against the stairs, a streak of red against the grey stone marking her fall. Nobunaga wants to look away; forces herself not to, but still can’t bring her gaze to linger for long. What she’s wrought is seen in glimpses: the red that flows in a steady stream past Okita’s body, continuing down the steps; Okita’s king, flecked in crimson and beginning to droop from between limp fingers; Nobunaga refuses to look at where she’d pressed her rifle to Okita’s head, because she knows she flinched at the last moment, but she also knows she did not miss.

This is the one fault in Nobunaga’s plan; the army around Honnouji, the one thing she didn’t (or, depending on who you believe, refused to) consider: that all the warnings she’d been given about Mitsuhide had merit to them; that she wouldn’t be able to hold the rifle true.

Nobunaga’s gaze lingers on the steps, on the flickering of gold across Okita’s body. The remnants of her Saint Graph glitter in the setting sun, a tattered mass of lines stitched haphazardly together, hardly any unfamiliar runes present to patch up the gaps. Nobunaga’s rifle slips from numb fingers, clatters once on the steps, and disappears. This is because of her; she’d distracted Okita from the battlefield, and Okita’s Saint Graph has paid for it.

And now, Okita lays on the steps in front of her, magical energy slowly leaking out to dissipate into the air, no Grail to call her back should she vanish entirely. Nobunaga manages to tear her eyes away, glancing down into the valley. What she’s put into motion now can’t be stopped, and the only thing left to do now is to see things through to their end.

Slowly, her gaze fixed on the sun slipping below the horizon, Nobunaga steps around Okita, calling another rifle to her hands. The first Heroic Spirit she’ll have to fight will be here soon, drawn here by what Nobunaga’s done, and Nobunaga will kill him, because it’s the only thing she can do now. She must kill, and kill quickly, because every moment wasted is another that Okita is lying on the shrine’s steps, the fragile remains of her essence dissipating into the coming night.

Nobunaga doesn’t have to wait long. Twin bolts of energy shoot out from the forest as Nobunaga nears the bottom of the steps, one of them grazing her arm. Nobunaga wheels and fires, her first shots going wide: she’d misjudged where her opponent was, and now he steps out from the trees, katana held loosely in one hand, the other stretched towards Nobunaga, an orb of energy forming in his upraised palm.

“I’d always knew you’d be the one to break our accord,” Ruler says, flipping his palm towards Nobunaga. “What a sorry sight you’ve become, Archer- no, Berserker.”

“You got here fast,” Nobunaga grins, not yet lifting her rifle. It’s not time: she has to wait until he gets in close, and then she’ll make her move.

“I put my Authority in this place when I made that agreement with your Caster. That way, I would know if it had been broken.” The orb in Ruler’s hand glows brighter, and he inclines his head solemnly. “And in doing so, you’ve marked yourself for death.”

“Oh, like I wasn’t your enemy already?”

“Enough.” Ruler’s hand snaps forward, and the orb in his hand expands into a beam, racing for Nobunaga. He expects Nobunaga to try and dodge, a maneuver that won’t work: the beam will draw her back in towards it, an unavoidable attack.

Instead, Nobunaga throws her rifle down and draws her sword, slicing into the beam. It struggles, yields, breaks in two and sails past Nobunaga into the trees beyond, leaving her with nothing but some scorched sleeves for her effort.

“Impossible,” Ruler mutters, firing again. This time, Nobunaga cuts straight through the attack, rapidly closing the distance between herself and Ruler. Her sword comes down on his, again and again, a frenzied series of blows that force Ruler back into the forest, where the uneven ground threatens to disrupt his footing and give Nobunaga the advantage. The power behind Nobunaga’s strokes resonates in his arms, both of which are required to hold his sword level against Nobunaga’s onslaught, a feat not even the Berserker on his team has managed to achieve.

“What is this?” demands Ruler, leaping back to gain some distance. “Your Saint Graph isn’t that strong. You’ve been losing pieces of it the entire time you’ve been here. How are you still so-” Nobunaga grimaces, and her teeth and Saint Graph gleam under the trees. “Avenger.”

“Correct,” she says, extending her hands to her sides. “And for your reward, I’ll show you who I am before you die.”

A wave of rifles rises in the air behind her, followed by another, a third. Ruler lifts his blade warily, but uselessly. There’s no way to outrun the fire, no means to block or weather it. Now Ruler knows the terror the Takeda cavalry felt, now a thousand lights sparkle from between the trees, and a thousand more are coming.

With the lift of a hand, Nobunaga fires. Her rifles ring out in perfect tandem, some shots going wide, most staying true to their mark. Ruler disappears in a cloud of dirt and debris, and still Nobunaga keeps firing, refusing to stop. Ruler will be the hardest of the Heroic Spirits to kill; once his Saint Graph is hers, the rest will simply be names on a list.

After several long seconds, Nobunaga finally stops, dispelling the lines of rifles behind her. She doesn’t move forward immediately, waiting for the smoke to clear. Her worry is unwarranted: Ruler only managed to duck behind a tree, which now lays in shattered fragments around him, illuminated by the golden mist rising from his body.

“Archer-” Ruler struggles for breath, finds none coming to him. Nobunaga puts the rifle in her hand to his head, and a flower blossoms over his brow. Her Saint Graph may have had an advantage over his, but Ruler is not the man that Nobunaga intends to make suffer before he dies. Ruler’s body slumps into the dirt, dissolving faster, leaving behind a glistening circle which Nobunaga plucks out from among the golden motes. It loops around her wrist like a snake when she touches it, barbed edges digging into her own Saint Graph, and the shock of it staggers Nobunaga: she stumbles towards a stump, gripping its jagged edges for support.

The feeling passes soon enough, and Nobunaga shakes her head, clearing it from the haze that had passed over her. Already, Ruler’s power is surging to bolster hers, leaving only one other Heroic Spirit that could threaten her survival.

Nobunaga goes for her former team’s base, and to him.

Evil Wind doesn’t have the chance to sound a warning: Nobunaga reeks of Ruler’s presence, and Evil Wind is falling from his perch with a bullet in his head long before Nobunaga even breaches the treeline.

Saber of Flowers is next. She doesn’t see Nobunaga until it’s too late: she’s walking the grounds, having been awoken by Okki, who she’s going to reassure that the noise she thought she’d heard was just an animal in the forest when she returns. She doesn’t: Nobunaga’s katana finds her heart, slices back, spills her blood across the courtyard, where Nobunaga lights it ablaze.

That’s where Okki finds her: standing at the center of it all, a rifle in one hand and katana in the other, waiting. The fire whips around her, flaring the edges of her cape wide to her sides, dancing in her hat’s golden rays. Okki doesn’t know what she’s faced with, at first: whether she was an Archer or Berserker, Nobunaga had always announced her presence with fanfare and dramatic shouting. The figure in the courtyard says nothing, merely looks at Okki with dark eyes made redder by the flames, and glares.

The base is on fire, and there’s no one but Berserker to help put it out, and Okki doesn’t know where he is; she doesn’t even know whether she hopes he’s here, finding a way through the flames to help her, or somewhere far away from the monster at the heart of their base. With the fire licking away at everything Okki knows, the fight won’t be a long one. She knows this, knows that the Saint Graphs of half her team are shining along the former Archer’s body, knows she’s next.

Okki fights anyway, unleashing a blast that would’ve torn a weaker Heroic Spirit apart. Saber of Flowers is gone, a set of graven words looped around a sleeve, because Okki hadn’t wanted to go out with her. She’s gone- a section of wall crumbles, and Okki feels herself falter. Her opponent doesn’t hesitate, reaching for another rifle, taking aim. Okki lifts her hands and shoots another blast, and even as it leaves her, she knows it’s far weaker than the ones before it. Her base, her home, is crumbling into ashes around her, and Saber of Flowers is no longer here-

Nobunaga’s shot strikes home, and Okki collapses in the flames. The bite of this Saint Graph matches the aching in her own, and Nobunaga closes her eyes. Yes, she thinks, she understands; if she was any less the warlord from history, she might have been sorry-

Something breaks the air around Nobunaga, digs into her arm. Nobunaga shouts and reels back, watching her blood hiss in the air above the fire and drip off Hijikata’s blade.

“Oda,” he growls, eyes flitting from the fire to Okki’s fading body to Nobunaga. “What did you do with my Captain?”

Nobunaga lets her rifles be the answer: a solid wall of them, shots arcing perfectly towards Hijikata. She doesn’t expect him to take them all, running straight for her, pistol unholstered and firing at her. Nobunaga feels the shot impact against her shoulder, going straight for the bone, and then the fire within her roars and she looses it at him, a torrent that streams up his robes, forcing him to break off his attack and smother the flames.

“Now you care?” Nobunaga shouts, advancing on him.

“I have always-!”

“You don’t get to say that!” Nobunaga brings her sword down; Hijikata rolls out of the way, but Nobunaga is striking again, hacking madly at the earth. “You’re supposed to be her Vice-Commander! Do you know what she’d do to avoid disappointing you? Do you think about what you tell her?”

“The duty of a Shinsengumi captain-”

The fire flares between them, and still Nobunaga keeps coming, her eyes wild and blind to the flames jumping at her. “Calling her a coward? Telling her to kill herself? Are those the words of someone who cares for his subordinates?”

“Don’t think of yourself as blameless either, Oda!” Hijikata rises with a sudden fury, his sword lashing out at Nobunaga. “Not when you left us for the enemy. Not when your betrayal tore Okita apart-”

A vicious cry rips free of Nobunaga’s throat, and her sword hits the dirt. She lunges for Hijikata with her arms extended; hits him hard, driving them both into the ground. Hijikata’s arms swing at her stomach, at her head, but Nobunaga’s grip is strong around his throat, and the force of five Saint Graphs bears down on Hijikata while the fire continues to sap the air from around them.

“Don’t talk to me about Souji...” The fire closes in around them, throwing up sparks of gold where it meets Hijikata’s body, and still Nobunaga keeps her hold. “You, everyone who’s hurt her, they’ll be answering to me.”

“And the others…”

The cold in Nobunaga’s voice doesn’t crack under the heat of the fire around them, sapping the very air from both their lungs. “Necessary,” she says, squeezing her fingers tighter. She feels Hijikata’s throat buckle under her hands, another spray of gold rising into the air between her fingers. Another moment passes before he disappears completely, and Nobunaga’s hands close in around another Saint Graph, one that sinks itself into her skin with barbs like hot metal, an agony entirely all its own. Nobunaga shakes her head, acclimatizing to it, letting it settle along with the piercing pain in her arm. A quick glance confirms that Hijikata’s all but immobilized that arm, and now that her rage has faded, it responds sluggishly to only the most basic of movements. Nobunaga will have to rely on her fire and her rifles, then, and that’s fine.

Against Kagetora, Nobunaga had imagined it no other way.

Leaving behind the burning base behind her, Nobunaga moves off towards the rice fields at a sprint, ignoring the ache in her lungs that throbs in time with her bleeding arm. This is nothing, she tells herself, willing herself onward. She needs eleven Saint Graphs, and she will have them at any cost, including herself.

* * *

Kagetora is waiting at the edge of the rice fields, six weapons stabbed into the grass and one in each hand, watching the column of smoke that rises in the distance over Nobunaga’s approach. “I was wondering when this would happen,” she says as soon as Nobunaga is within earshot.

“I’m getting that a lot tonight.”

“Who’s working with you?” Kagetora tilts her head at Nobunaga, beginning to circle her around the edge of a rice paddy. “Your brother? Your old retainer?”

“You won’t live to find out.”

“Aha, don’t you remember?” Kagetora sets her feet, readying herself to attack. “Every time we’ve fought, I’ve killed you.”

“This won’t be like every time we’ve fought.” Nobunaga waves her hand forward, calling her rifles to her, watches her shots arc around Kagetora and kick up waves of grass and water. Kagetora doesn’t hesitate either, darting forward with her spear and katana, bringing them down in tandem on Nobunaga, who dodges the first and takes the second, angling her body so it comes down on her already injured arm. Kagetora doesn’t hesitate to let go, leaping back to avoid a spray of fire from Nobunaga’s rifles and grabbing another of her swords.

“How sloppy.” Kagetora dances to the side, Nobunaga’s fire again passing harmlessly around her. “You got yourself injured before coming to fight me, knowing you can’t hit me with anything but your sword? Spending time with that Saber really has dulled you.”

“Is that why made her your target?” Nobunaga glowers at her, dropping to one knee to focus her fire, directed at Kagetora with the simple point of a finger. The rounds fail to hit, but this is a sustained barrage: clusters of rifles blaze into existence, fire, and disappear in an endless circle around Nobunaga, a dozen bullets rushing at Kagetora at any given moment. “Is that why there’s so much of her in your Saint Graph?”

“An enemy is an enemy, Oda. Surely you of all people would acknowledge that.”

“Don’t play dumb with me- I know you went after her!” Nobunaga’s eyes flare with rage, the rifles around her doubling in number, their shots whizzing closer and closer to Kagetora. Behind her, a hail of bullets rains down upon her naginata, shattering the blade beyond repair; another sword is knocked far beyond her reach, and still Nobunaga keeps calling more rifles.

“And what of it?” Kagetora runs at Nobunaga, still untouchable to the bullets flying around her. “Anyone from our time knows what risk there is in getting attached to someone else.”

“Then you would know the consequences of attacking someone attached to me!” Nobunaga flings a hand out before her, a hundred rifles obscuring her from Kagetora’s line of sight. Kagetora throws up a hand to ward off the flare of so many guns firing at once; when she lowers it, Nobunaga has disappeared.

“Running away again?” Kagetora calls into the open air. “Just as you ran from me after Tedorigawa?”

No response dignifies Kagetora’s taunt. She spins a careful circle, glancing at the distant trees. There’s no way Nobunaga could have gotten there so quickly- she’s nearby, and Kagetora knows it. Her spear held ready, she advances down the ridge, ready to strike at any sign of movement.

A hand bursts from the water, grasps her ankle. Kagetora looks down, and there is Nobunaga, rising from where she’d dove into a rice paddy for cover, her face a mask of sheer hatred. Her fingers twitch around Kagetora’s ankle, and a dome of rifles bursts into existence around them, every last one aimed at her. Kagetora raises her spear to strike at Nobunaga, and at that moment, the rifles fire.

Kagetora’s swing goes wide, the tip of her spear sinking into the water and catching on the plants below. Kagetora falls down the side of the embankment, blood pouring from her mouth, wide eyes staring into Nobunaga’s. Nobunaga stares back, impassive, her expression so inscrutable that Kagetora wonders if she’d seen things, if she’d only imagined the anger in Nobunaga’s eyes that spoke so clearly of Nobunaga’s intent to kill her.

Nobunaga pulls herself up out of the water with her good arm, grasping at her belt for her katana. “Ah, are you afraid, god of war?” She laughs raspily, pushing herself to her knees with the sword as her aid, staggering to where Kagetora lays tainting the water red. “You let me hit you, so you must be.”

She doesn’t wait for Kagetora’s reply, lifting the point of her katana and stabbing it down into Kagetora’s chest. A few quick cuts, and Kagetora’s Saint Graph is snug within the palm of her hand, curled up like the dragon she was rumored to be when she was alive. Nobunaga lets it settle beside the rest, a shudder working its way through her body. Her captive Saint Graphs strain against her, writhing in an effort to be set free; Nobunaga fights them back, her will keeping them bound to hers. A little longer, she tells herself, and then she’ll be rid of them. Nobunaga climbs back up onto the main path, winding her way between the rice paddies towards the base. Just a little more.

Rider and Lancer don’t hesitate when Nobunaga enters. Whether the column of smoke or Mitsuhide clued them in, Nobunaga doesn’t know or care. All she knows is that they’re in her way, and Mitsuhide is past them.

Rider is harder to pin down, leaping all over the place. Lancer is the one that Nobunaga targets, and the one who falls first: this time, he is pierced through with bullets, not arrows, and his body hits the floor with a thud that rattles the rafters that Rider dives at Nobunaga from. Her screams are loud enough to rouse the dead, and yet they do nothing: another few moments, and she lays at her Lancer’s side, run through by Nobunaga’s sword and just as quickly quelled with a shot to the head. Nobunaga had no quarrel with them- they’d always given each other a wide berth- and so Nobunaga kills them quickly, and moves further into the base.

Mitsuhide is in the courtyard, seemingly waiting for Nobunaga to arrive. A quick look up and down, and then- “You found it.” Nobunaga doesn’t bother to confirm his suspicions, and yet he nods anyway, clasping his hands behind his back. “What do you intend to do now, Nobunaga?”

“What I should’ve done the moment I saw you.” The fire lurks beneath Nobunaga’s skin, her voice, begging to be unleashed. Just a little longer, she tells it, just wait. Her thirst for vengeance won’t be satisfied simply by Mitsuhide’s death; she must take it in, everything from what is said to how he screams when the fire comes for him. “But I think it’s better this way, actually. Now you get to feel how I did- what it’s like when someone betrays you, how it feels to burn.”

“So that’s how it’ll be.” To his credit, Mitsuhide is calm, but that only fuels Nobunaga’s rage. She wants to see him fracture, unravel, knowing no amount of scheming or manipulation can save him-

“I thought I told you to stay away from her.” Nobunaga’s voice is oddly soft, the fingers of both hands flexing constantly.

“And to the best of my ability, I did,” Mitsuhide says. “This is an active battlefield, after a-”

Nobunaga doesn’t want to hear it. She doesn’t need to: Mitsuhide’s fate was already decided the moment she set foot on the hilltop shrine. A twitch of her fingers sends fire leaping at him; an application of his power bats it away, but more of it courses out of Nobunaga; she’s nothing but a channel for it, and it comes in torrents from her hands and leaks from between her lips, a tempestuous mass of fire that clutches at anything that comes within its reach, adhering to it and lighting it aflame.

Mitsuhide doesn’t scream, not at first. That happens when Nobunaga calls two rifles to her side and has them shoot out his kneecaps, when the flame, as if alive, leaps down his throat to sear him from the inside out. All that follows is the snapping of sparks and embers, and Nobunaga standing amidst them, watching, taking in every last detail. Only when Mitsuhide is ashes among the cinders does Nobunaga move, gingerly picking up his Saint Graph from amidst the debris and adding it to her collection, tilting her head at its lack of resistance. Perhaps this is his attempt at atonement; perhaps Nobunaga is so used to the struggle of her captive Saint Graphs that Mitsuhide’s feeble efforts don’t register to her at all.

One more remains. Nobunaga waves a hand, and the fire clears a path for her before swaying back into place, consuming the last remnants of Mitsuhide and chewing its way through the grass towards the other buildings. The fire will flush Nobukatsu out, and if it doesn’t, Nobunaga will hunt him instead, as she’d done once before.

A minute passes before Nobunaga hears the scraping of boots against gravel behind her. She turns, and there is Nobukatsu: kneeling in the rocks that encircle what had once been a tree, now the resting place of what’s left of her traitorous retainer. The thought brings a grim smile to Nobunaga’s face, mistaken by Nobukatsu for a welcome.

“Big sister!” he says, smiling up at her. “You really did it! I didn’t expect you to act so soon...” His enthusiasm quickly fades away, replaced by nervousness, just as soon flashing over into fear. “Ha- big sister?”

“Do you think,” Nobunaga says quietly, “that you can approach me now and say you’ll be the faithful follower that you never were when you were alive?”

“I- yes, I-”

“It’s too late for that, Nobukatsu.” Nobunaga looks down upon him, resting her hand on the hilt of her katana. “The time for that was when you first found me. You showed me your hand when you and Mitsuhide attacked Souji, and again when you admitted you’re the reason I’m here.”

“I- Big sister, I only wanted the best for-”

“And now you show yourself before me wearing her Saint Graph.” Nobunaga’s voice remains level, unnaturally so. Not a hint of emotion shines in her eyes aside from the dancing orange reflected in them, her wrath unleashed into the world around her.

“I- please, it’s just how things are, you know that!” Nobukatsu lifts his hands in front of them, a half-shrug. “Y-you have parts that aren’t you, too! L-like…” Nobukatsu’s expression slackens for a moment. “Is that… is that everyone else?”

“You’ve finally caught on.” Nobunaga allows herself a smile, taking in the sight of Nobukatsu’s wide eyes and trembling jaw. There had been none of this when she’d killed him before; he had accepted that death. The one that threatens him now is entirely of his own making, one he hadn’t seen coming, an idea that makes the fires around them tremble with glee.

“W-what about the Sakura Saber? You don’t… have her.”

“I’m saving the best for last, Katsu. You’d appreciate that, right?”

“No, no wait, please-!”

Nobukatsu scrambles back on his hands, trying to avoid the rifle that Nobunaga produces from thin air, taking aim at him. Nobunaga sees his death reflected in the firelight glinting off his eyes: the end of a rifle, the flames around them, Nobunaga’s finger around the trigger, ready to pull it without a moment’s hesitation. This time, there is no peace in Nobukatsu’s eyes, only the instinctual terror of a cornered beast.

“Big-”

Nobukatsu’s head snaps back against the ground. Nobunaga doesn’t hesitate in leaning down and plucking out his Saint Graph, crushing it in her fist and sending it to join the others. The weight of them all staggers her stride, and it takes a concentrated effort for her to leave the fire behind and start back the way she came, moving towards the shrine. She can hardly feel her legs, and her injured arm is as good as gone to her- it hangs loosely by her side, swaying with every step, evading her attempts to hold it still.

* * *

The journey back to the shrine takes twice as long as it should. Every step fragments Nobunaga’s already wavering concentration, and the fractures in her own Saint Graph are starting to show: the edges of her vision flicker with gold, and sometimes she can catch the blood dripping from her arm turning into a bright mist before it hits the ground.

As Nobunaga starts up the steps, she turns back one last time to watch the twin pillars of smoke wafting over the valley. One, a pale grey, drifts in the direction of its darker counterpart, both of them mingling and rising to choke out the moonlight. It’s under this shadow that Nobunaga ascends the rest of the way, at last reaching the place where Okita lays, still unconscious, her blood long since dried on the steps. Here, Nobunaga lets herself go at last: she falls to her knees on the step where Okita has come to rest, extending her arms before her and plucking out fragments from the Saint Graphs wound around them, carefully placing them back where Nobunaga thinks they should be. It’s not a perfect fit- Okita’s Saint Graph has since adapted to work with less magical energy, and the addition of this much will take more time to get accustomed to- but it will keep her stable until Nobunaga can get the rest of her Saint Graphs to the Grail, and that’s all that matters.

A weary hand winds its way through Okita’s hair, accompanied by a weighty sigh. “I’m sorry, Souji,” Nobunaga whispers to her. “I couldn’t do it, even though it was your wish. What happens after this is up to you now.” Nobunaga reaches into her coat with her good hand, digging in her pockets. Gone are the days of sugar candy; she’s looking for something else, tucked away months ago, and finds it snugly secured in her breast pocket, only faintly smelling of smoke. “Here,” she says, winding the black scarf around Okita’s shoulders and tucking it in. “You keep this.”

A hand seizes Nobunaga’s suddenly, trembling, but firm. Okita’s glazed eyes, half-open, stare blankly at Nobunaga, her face contorted in confusion. “Who…” she manages to whisper, eyes starting to slip shut again. The miniscule amount of energy she’d received from the pieces of Saint Graph that Nobunaga had returned to her is fading, along with whatever time Nobunaga had managed to buy.

“I’m glad I met you, Souji.” Nobunaga leans down, touches the backs of her fingers to Okita’s cheek. “Whatever happens after this, I hope you can find the happiness you wish for.”

Okita doesn’t move again, doesn’t stir. Nobunaga pushes herself back up to her feet, leaping from the stairs and catching herself on the uneven ground, the final remnants of her own strength driving her in a run deep into the forest.

She reaches the clearing in minutes, plunges herself in without hesitation. The weight is lifted from her arms almost immediately, replaced by another: again, that feeling of something tearing at her very being, only stronger, more vicious than before. The Grail requires eleven Saint Graphs, and she has brought it ten, and herself: there is no wish for Nobunaga to make, none that would matter once she’s gone; the only thought she has is the one that’s sustained her for the past few hours, to _ not let Souji die_.

The liquid vibrates around Nobunaga, surging with power. Her Saint Graph not entirely stripped away, she feels the thrum of magical energy flowing through her body as the Grail reconnects itself to the two Heroic Spirits that still remain, soon to be one.

Another burst of energy: Nobunaga blinks, and in that moment sees eleven tendrils of energy reaching across the earth, eleven new Heroic Spirits being called forth.

Through the haze of her own failing Saint Graph, she manages to articulate one thing: _ I wished to stop the fighting_.

A tremor of the energy around her is her answer. Okita’s survival is the realization of a wish made; for this, the conflict will continue. The Grail will continue to grow in its power, the fighting continuing in a cycle, but one that Okita will live to see.

As for Nobunaga, she can no longer feel her own body. The pool around her is dark once again, and in spite of her fire, deathly cold. Her attempt to reach the surface with a hand goes unanswered, and something brushes against her back, what might be the bottom. Nobunaga’s vision swims before her eyes, unknowable patterns swirling through the water and on the insides of her eyelids, and after another moment, even those go still.


	3. 3 - 薄桜

Another dream about her. Okita lays on her back, the pressure of the futon a soothing weight against the soreness in her chest. A turn of her head confirms what the heaviness in her lungs is telling her: it’s going to rain today.

Okita sits up, drapes her arms over her knees, stares out the hole clawed into the wood that she calls a window. The rain has not yet begun to fall, but the clouds above are laden with it, an angry gray that brings Okita’s dream to the forefront of her mind. It’s never the same dream, but it’s close enough to recurring that Okita has thought to ask her teammates about it, and none of them can say they know: after all, Okita is the oldest Heroic Spirit on the battlefield, even if she doesn’t remember being there for most of it.

Today’s dream is unusually calm, if disconcerting. Usually, her dreams are filled with the crack of gunfire too quick to be Hijikata’s, the faint smell of gunpowder on the wind that lingers in Okita’s senses in her waking moments, sending her into a coughing fit first thing in the morning. Very rarely, she’ll catch a glimpse of color, always red, but Okita can never tell if it’s hers or someone else’s. This morning’s dream is drenched in it, the clearest Okita’s ever seen it. Okita is laying on the ground, a blur of red and black crouched over her, faint murmurs in her ears. Her vision goes dark, as if blotted out by a cloud, but only for a moment. It returns as quickly as it left; the red is gone, and Okita rubs the sleep from her eyes, dismissing the dream as just another death come to haunt her from her time spent fighting.

(What Okita will never admit to herself is that she remembers no such person. No Heroic Spirit alive clads themselves in red and black, and none of them would kneel over Okita like the figure in her dreams, someone Okita can only think of as the girl in red.)

Outside, Okita can hear footsteps thumping on the wooden floorboards, accompanied by distant shouting. That would be Assassin and Archer, she thinks, enacting their daily ritual. “Hey, gimme some rice, Archer!” Yes, that’s Assassin: any moment now, reinforcements will be coming to help Archer, as long as he can keep his rice bag out of Assassin’s clutches. The one time he hadn’t, half the courtyard had been flooded in rice before the two Berserkers could get him back under control.

“Assassin, why do you always give Archer such a hard time?”

“Aw, stay out of this, Raikou!”

“Hey, watch your tone! I can dunk you into Archer’s rice bag so hard you won’t resurface ‘til noon!”

In spite of herself, Okita manages a giggle past the tightness winding up in her throat. Of course Kintoki wouldn’t be far behind Raikou. The two of them had shown up just as the Heroic Spirits that were summoned were choosing their sides, spotting the outline of a base on a hillside and announcing their arrival by shouting their True Names as a greeting. As Kintoki had said- _ she’s got the lightning, I’m golden, we’d be recognized as soon as we showed up anywhere! No use disguising ourselves with fame like that! _

But Okita is not so well known, so she still goes by the title of Sakura Saber, and so do the other two Heroic Spirits she recognizes from her time. They were the first ones she’d met, having accidentally stumbled upon the hillside they were using as a lookout point over the rest of the land. Okita had gone for her sword instinctively, ignoring the dragon floating beside the two men, years of fruitless hunting spurring Okita on.

It still strikes her as odd that they’re all on the same side now: Sakura Saber, Manslayer Assassin, and the Hero of Restoration. In their lifetimes, they wouldn’t have hesitated to strike at each other had their paths crossed. Now, Okita laughs gently at Kintoki chasing Izou around the courtyard, and crisp thump of two boots stopping in front of her room announces the presence of the other, politely waiting for Okita to announce whether she’s awake or not.

“Come in, Rider,” she says, and the door slides open.

“I hope we didn’t wake you,” Ryoma says. Oryou hovers lazily at his side, floating slightly crosswise to take advantage of the hand trailing along her hair. “Or that Izou didn’t.”

“I didn’t do nothin’!”

“It’s fine.” Okita smiles at Ryoma and nods at Oryou, who returns her greeting with a glare and the baring of teeth. Oryou still isn’t over Okita’s attempt to attack Ryoma from months ago, even if it’s the only time Okita had ever raised her sword against them. Okita understands- Izou had filled her in on the details as they worked to hack down trees, and Okita can’t help but pity and envy the dragon, a strange mix emotions she still can’t quite make sense of. “I was awake anyway.”

“Ah. Well-” Ryoma shoots a look over his shoulder to make sure Izou isn’t going to come barreling at him before turning back to Okita. “We think it’s going to rain today, so Oryou wants to go look for frogs. Want to come with us?”

“Is that code for ‘raiding the enemy’?”

“No, Oryou really does want to look for frogs.”

“Ryoma doesn’t need to ask Okita,” Oryou huffs at him. “Oryou and Ryoma can handle themselves.”

“It’s just to be sure, Oryou.” Ryoma gives her a few conciliatory pats. “It’s what the Heroic Spirits that came before us did, right, Okita?”

Okita nods, even though she isn’t sure. It’s more a gut feeling than any solid memory or two, but the other Heroic Spirits took one look at the fragmented patchwork of her Saint Graph and accepted her word as truth. “Am I still doing patrol with Assassin tonight?” she asks.

“I think we’ll be back before then. Right, Oryou?”

“That depends on how many frogs Oryou finds.”

“How many will it take to make Oryou happy?”

The dragon seems to consider the question for a long while, taking her eyes off Okita for once. “Hm… twenty.”

“We can do twenty for sure,” Ryoma tells her.

“But don’t ask me to catch them.” Okita checks her hakama, makes sure her katana is positioned correctly against it before adjusting the sash around her waist and nodding to Ryoma. “They’re too slippery for me.”

“Oryou will catch them if Okita will point them out… and maybe not eat Okita for helping.”

“Oryou…”

“It’s okay, I know she’s joking.” The three of them make their way around the courtyard, the other Heroic Spirits having long since left, Kintoki chasing Izou out into the surrounding forest. They walk through the heavy twin gates, planted in the earth by Kintoki and Oryou in a contest to see who could raise their half of the perimeter faster, and up into the mountains, their rivers still full to bursting from the constant summer rains.

“Where does Oryou want to look this time?” Okita hears Ryoma asking. Oryou leans over and whispers into his ear; Okita adjusts her obi again, checking the treeline just to be sure they’re alone. Their enemies are oddly persistent, eager to hound Raikou and Kintoki and whoever else happens to be on their side, bold enough to launch attacks on the base in broad daylight.

No sign of fire flares amidst the trees, but there’s something, the slightest hint of movement. Okita’s hand snaps to her sword, one foot scraping backwards in the dirt. Between the branches, a fluttering: the snapping of a cape, the bold red that stands out against the leaves, clearly out of place. Okita’s breath catches painfully, and her body is wracked by coughing: her hand leaves her sword to settle over her chest, and both Ryoma and Oryou turn to look at her.

“Okita?” Ryoma puts a hand on her shoulder, leaning down. “What is it?”

“I just-” More coughing, a quick gasp for breath. “I saw something-”

Oryou is already looking at the trees, red eyes narrowed, intent. Nothing will sneak up on her Ryoma if Oryou is watching, and Oryou will always be watching.

“Are you sure?”

At last, Okita musters the strength to lift her head. Where she’d thought there was movement in the trees, there’s nothing: just leaves, swaying in the wind. Whatever she’d seen must have been a fragment of her dream leaking briefly into reality, and nothing more.

“I guess not,” Okita relents, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. It comes away red, and Okita rubs it away with her palm.

“Better to be safe than sorry anyway,” Ryoma says. “Oryou, let’s be careful today.”

After another moment to collect herself, Okita nods, and the three of them continue along the path that hundreds of trips up the mountain have weathered into the forest floor. Ryoma’s hand stays near his sword; Oryou’s gaze traverses the trees, but nothing leaps out at them, nothing about the forest betrays any hint of an ambush. It was just a part of her dream, Okita tells herself, and then Oryou spots a frog and she’s running alongside Ryoma, their shouts and laughter ringing over the empty trees, Okita’s nameless ghost just as quickly forgotten as remembered.

* * *

When she has to fight, Okita is careful, even more so than her teammates. They still love the rush of battle, throwing themselves into it with reckless glee, even Ryoma and Oryou basking in the opportunity to fight at each others’ side once again. Okita is more reserved, checking to see if she’ll have backup, never once letting the enemy outmaneuver her. Adrenaline and the thrill of fighting still sing in her blood, but something had to have made Okita forget what she’s done before, and Okita isn’t eager to encounter it again.

In spite of her care, or perhaps to mock it, the dreams are becoming more frequent; they’ve ceased to be dreams, spilling out into Okita’s waking moments. The smallest of things will bring the girl in red to mind: the flash of the enemy’s blood on her blade, the crackle of the fire that her team likes to gather around at night, the splash of cool rainwater over her sandals. Worse, there’s no telling what will cause a fresh pang to lance through Okita’s head, a throbbing at the base of her skull accompanied by a fragment of a dream or some distant memory, leaving in its wake the whispered echoes of murmured words or the vague sensation of weight on Okita’s tongue, something to be said that the moment keeps her from articulating.

At least the infection in her lungs will give her warning, surfacing more frequently in wet weather and easily endured under the warmth of her futon. These inexplicable visions take her by surprise in the most random of moments, and leave her with nothing to show for them. The others on her team know about her sickness, but Okita wonders if they’ll ever figure out that her lapsing silences and distant stares are symptoms of some other ailment, one that Okita wouldn’t even begin to know how to treat.

The constant presence of another teammate soothes that worry, even if only slightly. Today, her company is Izou, called a manslayer just like Okita, reliable enough for Okita to know he’d leap to her defense if she faltered in battle. That’s the unspoken agreement they have as swordsmen from the Bakumatsu period- any death, when it comes, will be one earned in combat, and not because the opponent had been lucky enough to catch one of them in a moment of weakness.

“This weather sucks,” Izou gripes to Okita, his breath puffing out into a cloud in front of him. He paws at the wrap around his neck, brings it up to cover the lower half of his face, and shoots an envious look at Okita’s scarf. “S’ not even winter yet.”

The morning rain had soon turned to sleet, raining cold white crystal down upon the forest. The silence that blankets freshly fallen snow is in part why Ryoma had insisted Okita and Izou go on patrol earlier than usual. They’re looking for tracks that aren’t theirs, things out of place, anything that might suggest the enemy is closing in on their base.

“That’s right,” Okita says. “It didn’t snow much where you came from, did it?”

“Enough for me to hate when it did.” Izou kicks at a patch of snow spitefully, yelps when his toe hits solid ice. “The hell? How’s it frozen over already?”

“It’s been cold,” Okita says. Her arms, crossed over her chest, tremble with the dual effort of keeping her hands and her chest warm. She’s only barely holding back the coughing, and hopes she can keep it managed until it’s time to turn back: they’re nearly at the end of the route.

“You’d think snow would make us safer.” Izou stops, pauses, takes a double stride to catch up with Okita.

“Unless it’s pouring rain, I’d hardly think it matters.”

“We know they’re on the other side of the mountains,” Izou says. “The rain falls twice as hard there. They’d have to get through that and all of this.”

“How much rain falls doesn’t matter when it’s all snow,” sighs Okita. “Not when they can just-”

She goes quiet in the same moment that Izou’s hand snaps up, putting a stop to their progress. They both hear it, the shrieking of something traveling their way, but it’s not until the fireball smacks into the ground where they’re standing that Okita registers it could be the enemy.

“Go!” Izou roars, picking himself up and turning back down the path. “We’ve got to warn the others!”

“Who-” Okita coughs, spitting red onto the snow. “Who is it?”

“Who cares?!” Izou hauls Okita to her feet by the back of her kimono, all but pushing her down the icy slope. “They want us dead!”

Another barrage of fire arcs in from high above, missing wide, still throwing chunks of shattered trees and scorched branches from where each shot lands. Izou grunts, ignoring the piece of trunk that pierces his thigh. He keeps running, throwing backwards glances over his shoulder, looking to Okita to see if she’s spotted anything.

“Still nothing,” Okita pants, her stomach churning. She’s going to be sick, and it won’t be a memory. The rain and the snow have worsened her condition since the morning, and soon she’ll have to stop and take cover while it wreaks havoc upon her body. There’s a kilometer left to the base; Izou could run it, but Okita knows she can’t, and refuses to make her teammate surrender a part of his Saint Graph. “Assassin, you go on ahead. I’ll stall her.”

“What, Saber? You going soft? You can’t possibly-!” Izou throws up his hands as a fireball crashes down nearby, sending them both staggering into the trees surrounding them.

“Those shots are getting closer, okay?” Okita musters up her strength, pushing at the Assassin’s shoulders. “If this keeps up, we’re both getting killed and no one knows what’s coming. I’ll stall, you tell them, and the next time we go on patrol together, you can be the one who dies. Deal?”

“Ah, Rider’s gonna have my ass for this!”

“And his dragon will be happy that I’m dying, so call it even and go already!”

Izou nods, dashing off with his katana balanced over his shoulder. Okita braces herself against the tree and draws her own sword, glancing around for a glimpse of the enemy. They have to be firing from some vantage point: not higher up the mountain, or Okita and Izou would’ve seen them. No, they must be nearby, launching their flames nearly straight into the air to get sufficient height to come back down with. The treetops, then- Okita winces, clutching her head; she’s slashing at branches, something falls beside her, something red- when she opens her eyes, there’s orange licking at the air in front of her, and her shouts are drowned out in the snapping of flames.

Someone lands close beside her, a slender woman clad in white, turquoise hair whipping around by her hips. The fan in her hand ripples with fire, and Okita clenches her teeth: one of the enemy team’s two Berserkers, who oddly both favor fire. This one is the worst of them, at least by Okita’s opinion: she’ll take being slashed to bits over being burned alive any day.

“No, no, you’re not getting away so easily,” Berserker sings at her. Fire lances from her fan, leaving Okita scrambling to get away. The edge of her hakama catches, smothers in the snow, threatens to reignite as the flames pursue her, running heedlessly over the snow through which Okita stumbles, consuming her footprints as they race to overtake her.

“Run, hide, it won’t work.” Berserker continues her slow advance, sleeves dragging over the now bare and scorched ground. “We’ll find you. If I can’t, the fire will.”

Okita can’t outlast her. Already her mouth is welling up with blood, a stench so strong it drowns out any trace of the fire. She grips her sword, angling herself towards the Berserker, preparing to strike. Better now than when she can’t hold herself together any longer, better to die fighting than waiting for death to come.

Okita lunges, hands outstretched to meet the flames. She doesn’t scream despite the fire that crashes against her left side, staying true to her target. It’s not enough: Berserker leaps back, and Okita staggers to the ground, barely catching herself with her good arm. Berserker prepares another tongue of fire, and Okita drops to avoid it, the welcome heat of it washing over her for a moment. Then it’s gone, and the cold is back, digging sharp claws into her chest; Okita goes down, unable to contain her coughs, and her blood lands on the thirsty earth and disappears into it.

“Oh, already?” Berserker muses. “See, wasn’t I right? Now burn, now you’ll burn-”

Despite her weariness, Okita raises her head. This is what she does, what she’d devoted her life to: looking death in its many faces, challenging it to wear her down. Any death that isn’t an idle one is good, even if it’s one of fire and screams smothered in newly fallen snow.

More blood splatters the ground. Okita blinks, lifts a hand to her lips. Her fingers come away red, and yet, that blood isn’t hers, she doesn’t think it is. She can’t be sure, for in the next moment another wracking shudder overtakes her, and she’s curled up on all fours, sharp pain like knives filling her chest, making it hard enough to choke out blood, let alone cough or breathe. Berserker hits the ground next to her, the neck of her kimono turning pink, the snow beneath her head dyed likewise. How curious, Okita finds herself thinking, and then she is likewise gone, hurtling towards a familiar darkness, one that promises a brief reprieve, whether it’s death coming for her or not.

* * *

The darkness that Nobunaga drifts along is crushing, stifling. The same rigid force that keeps her limbs still also holds her lungs in limbo, and yet Nobunaga is still alive, a consciousness locked inside the casket that is her body. Occasionally, the hint of a Saint Graph will flicker over some part of her, a feeble light in a sea of nothingness, just as often familiar to Nobunaga as not.

She doesn’t know how long it is she stays there, only the sense of release that comes with her chest suddenly spasming to take in long-needed air and the coolness of damp earth seeping into the skin of her cheek. Her eyes fly open, and are met with vivid color: the flickering orange and red of rustling leaves drifting off of trees and carpeting the forest floor, arrayed in a fiery mosaic over her body. They’ve piled up so high that Nobunaga has to kick her legs to make any sort of progress, and when she finally extricates herself, she has to scratch away the hints of moss attempting to take root on her greaves.

The pool where Nobunaga had submerged herself is gone. All that remains of its presence is a dead patch on the forest floor, a perfect circle ringed by mushrooms and also littered with leaves. The battlefield has long since moved on, and Nobunaga can feel it calling to her, a steady thrumming in her chest that drives her to travel east.

Nobunaga does, over vast plains and wooded forests, an angry red ghost walking the fluctuating line between autumn and winter, the streak of her cape slicing paths for herself through the terrain.

She stumbles upon the new site of battle quite by accident, and only realizes it when an Archer’s shots start ringing around her, chewing through bark and bone alike, sending Nobunaga tumbling into a heap of leaves at the base of a fallen tree. Her own rifles return fire, shooting blindly in all directions, bullets glancing off branches and spiraling uselessly deeper into the woods.

The second volley, when it comes, finds its mark in Nobunaga, still fighting to regain her footing. She feels it smash into her, sending her crashing back into the black.

The crunching of leaves, a hand grasping uselessly at her cloak. A clumsy attempt to take a fragment of her Saint Graph ends in failure: that much, Nobunaga can tell, but not why. Perhaps what she’d done has left it too corrupted to retrieve any part of it: yes, that would fit. Another moment, and her assailant’s footsteps begin their slow retreat, fading off into the distance.

Nobunaga is alone again.

The temperature drops overnight, and it snows. Nobunaga doesn’t see it, merely feels the settling of ice over her face and chest, and then the numbness sets in.

Come morning, she’s melting her way free of her icy grave and storming towards the heart of this new battlefield, where she’ll be sure to find the Heroic Spirit who attacked her and pay them back in kind. A quick burst of energy patches up the hole in her coat from where she was shot, and that settles that.

She doesn’t notice the scar on her chest in the same place until two weeks after, when she stops to soak in a hot spring she’s found, and her very soul shudders with the memory of it.

* * *

The enemy is weak, at first. Nobunaga doesn’t understand why, but she’s happy to pick off the Heroic Spirits who stray too close to her makeshift home, a simple cave among the higher hills that’s often half-sealed with snow. That’s no problem for Nobunaga, who only leaves her vantage point for two reasons, the first being to replenish her magical energy. It comes back slower these days, though bolstering it with bits of Saint Graph seems to ease the process.

The second is to catch a glimpse of Okita. Nobunaga sees her only rarely, and always in the company of another Heroic Spirit. Nobunaga quickly learns who Okita’s allied herself with- a Rider whose mount is a dragon; an Assassin who seems as quick to grin as he is to threaten to cut out your throat. The others, she doesn’t talk to as much: two Berserkers who spend all their time with one another, and a rogue Archer, a different one, perpetually joking and laughing. Okita carries herself easily around them, her stride light, the disjointed tangle of her Saint Graph hardly reflected in her smile.

She’d done too much at once, Nobunaga realizes. Okita’s Saint Graph had overwritten parts of itself in its attempt to reconfigure itself all at once, no doubt exacerbated by the massive amounts of energy being channeled into the Grail that night.

(But then, she thinks, perhaps it’s better this way, and keeps to the mountains where Okita can never find her, where her sickness will force her to turn back before she can chance encountering Nobunaga).

Winter settles its hold on Japan, and Nobunaga finishes off the enemy Archer, watches their replacement Saber dart around the branches of the forest for a day before being found and recruited by two oni.

Nobunaga doesn’t think much of it until she notices the third, and then the fourth, and that’s when it clicks. Okita’s Saint Graph isn’t the only consequence of the rampant unleashing of magical energy.

Her watch continues, but can only do so much. Okita’s Saint Graph begins to crumble, small chips of it missing at first, then larger chunks. The oni rampage over the battlefield, burning and cutting down anyone in their way until Rider or the two Berserkers stop them. Oni may be strong, but they can only do so much against legends and a dragon.

Which is why, when Nobunaga sees the enemy’s dragon beginning to crest the mountain’s peak, fire searing her way forward, Nobunaga knows what she has to do.

A rifle leaps into her hand. Though she hasn’t personally used one in months, its weight fits snugly against her palm. It should be a reassuring reminder of her skill, but Nobunaga feels her the gorge of her throat rising, and forces it out of her mind: she’s needed on the battlefield.

Okita and her Assassin teammate are coming into view, along with the enemy Berserker. Nobunaga keeps running forward, smacking branches out of the way with the butt of her rifle. She’ll make it in time, she has to; the terrain beneath her boots is no longer hoarfrost, but hewn stone; the Berserker is lifting her arm, and Nobunaga staggers to a stop, squaring her feet. Her rifle kicks against her shoulder with a flare of light, and the first shot that Nobunaga herself has fired in months hits true.

* * *

Okita opens her eyes to a blur swaying in the distance, crouched low and worrying over the fading remains of a golden cloud. Something shimmers in its fingers, glinting in the light before winking away, and the blur stands. Okita fumbles at her waist for a katana that isn’t there- it’s in the snow beside her- but her clumsy movements have drawn the enemy’s eye. They stand, walking closer, only to kneel in the snow beside her. The bite of a sword through her chest that Okita expects never comes. Instead, her throat rises as her vision clears, but even if Okita had been unable to see clearly, the presence next to her is unmistakable. The heavy scent of iron that haunts Okita’s dreams fills the air around her, choking her, the crimson eyes of the girl in red piercing through the haze clouding her mind.

“Here.” A hand prods at hers, pushing something into it. The familiar rush of magical energy suffusing her body trembles through her, and Okita manages to suck in one breath, then another. Something shakes around her shoulders, too dark to be anything that belongs to her: a red cape and its golden clasp, draped carefully over her. “Take this,” the girl says. “You need it.”

“Who…” The rest of the question dies before Okita can voice it, and the girl ignores it anyway, lifting her cape off Okita and wrapping it around herself, carefully securing it in place.

“You can’t die here,” the girl says, reaching up to grasp at the air near her forehead. Her hand closes around nothing, and Okita watches her expression morph into a bemused smirk. Another glance at Okita, and the girl retreats back into the forest, quickly lost among the branches, the last remnants of her presence filling up with snow as Okita tries to catch her breath. When the scent of blood has gone from the air, Okita finally wraps her hand around her katana and props herself up with it, taking care to flick the snow off once she’s on her feet.

The journey back down the hill is made worse by the storm that rolls in, pelting Okita with flurries of snow and stirring her cough back into a fury. When she finally makes it back to the base, the sleeves of her haori are stained with frozen pink. Izou and Ryoma run out to meet her, leaving Raikou and Kintoki to guard the gates and push them shut once Okita is safely back within them, propped up against them as her team gathers around her, peppering her with questions.

“Where are they?” Kintoki asks, craning his neck at the wooden walls. “Izou said they were coming.”

“How many of them were there?”

“Just one.” Okita sputters and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, closing her eyes and leaning against the gates, letting them hold her upright. “The dragon Berserker. She’s dead.”

“Yeah, you got her.” Izou leans in, glancing at the newest piece of Okita’s Saint Graph, watching it flicker.

Okita shakes her head. “I didn’t,” she rasps. “Someone else. Red Archer.”

“An Archer?” Ryoma frowns. “There’s only one right now, and that’s our Archer.”

“She used a rifle.”

“We’re not missing anyone,” Raikou muses. “And unless the enemy turned on one of their own, there shouldn’t be another Heroic Spirit on the field. Are we missing something?”

“Even if there was someone else, that doesn’t explain how Okita ended up with Berserker’s Saint Graph,” says Kintoki. “You sure someone was really there?”

Okita nods, stifling another cough. Someone had to have shot Berserker; someone had to have put that cape over her, and its warmth was real. The skepticism doesn’t vanish from her teammates’ faces, though, and Izou says, “I dunno, Saber. According to what you told us, no one else should be out there. You sure you, eh, maybe didn’t just pass out and dream it up or somethin’?”

“I’m sure.” Okita’s voice is firmer, if still weak. She pushes herself back up, nudging her way between her teammates to head back to her room. Ryoma catches on, quickly darting between her and the others, arms outstretched.

“Hey, let’s give Saber some time to recover,” Okita can hear him saying. “You know she doesn’t do too well in this kind of weather. Kintoki, Raikou, you two are still alright keeping watch?”

“Yeah, leave it to us.” Kintoki hoists his axe over his shoulder and climbs back up the wall, perching himself atop the broad posts. “If anything comes down that hill, we’ll holler.”

“Thank you.” A few hurried steps, and Ryoma is at Okita’s side, helping her traverse the distance across the courtyard and to her room. “Hey, Okita,” he murmurs. “Was it really a Heroic Spirit you saw out there?”

“It had to be.” Okita pushes her door aside, staggering in on weary legs that give way as soon as she reaches her futon. “She smelled like…” And for a moment Okita’s senses are flooded by the smell of damp earth and running water, and she stares blankly at Ryoma. “Like gunpowder and blood,” she finishes softly. “She’s wearing red. You wouldn’t miss her if you saw her.”

“I’ll tell the others to keep an eye out just to be safe.” Ryoma retreats through the doorway, placing his hand on the screen. “Will you be alright?”

“I just need a little rest.” Okita musters a smile for him, and Ryoma nods and returns it, sliding the door shut and moving off to join the others.

Okita does not rest, though. She lays awake, fighting back the wracking coughs that surge with every recollection of her dreams, afraid to shut her eyes and be revisited by the girl in red, no longer just a shadow that might only be in her mind. She struggles against her fatigue until at last it overwhelms her, dragging her into the deep well of slumber, where she dreams of soaking her feet in a riverbank and carrying on a conversation with the birdsong, unaware of whether the wind she hears might be a voice, trying to reply, or merely the breeze whipping through the treetops.

* * *

The warning they receive comes in the form of Izou bursting into Ryoma’s room, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“There’s something in the forest!” he shouts, gesturing frantically towards the gates. A few doors slide open further down the courtyard, Kintoki and Raikou poking their heads out and rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

“What’s goin’ on?” Kintoki mumbles, feeling around blindly for the hilt of his axe.

“Saber is right! There’s something out there!”

“What did you see?” Ryoma asks. Oryou floats half-awake near his shoulder, lazily bumping into Ryoma with the hope of receiving more pats.

“I- I dunno.” Izou’s hand shakes around his katana, which he hasn’t let go of since he ran back into the base. Okita and Archer join the huddle at last, roused by the growing commotion. “But- Saber, I saw it! It’s red, and its Saint Graph…”

“I didn’t get a chance to look,” Okita murmurs.

“It’s not _ normal_,” Izou says. “It’s like- like a bunch of Saint Graphs all pressed into one. I couldn’t tell which one was the original-”

“A presence like that is impossible,” says Ryoma. “A Heroic Spirit with a Saint Graph that fragmented would’ve lost cohesion long ago. You’re sure-”

Beside him, Kintoki twitches, hefting his axe in both hands. Raikou draws her katana at the same instant, eyes darting back and forth between the fortress walls and the open gate, a minute smile coloring her expression. “You feel that too?” Kintoki asks her, and gets a tiny nod in reply.

“What’s happening?” asks Ryoma.

“Oni.” Archer reaches for his arrows, nocking one and leaping onto the roof. His teammates follow suit, clambering after him in time to see the first ball of fire launch itself from afar, streaking through the night sky before plummeting down towards the courtyard.

“Scatter!”

The six of them dive off the roof and for cover, and by the time they’ve found their footing again, the enemy is upon them. Okita counts five of them: the four oni and the dragon; their Saber must have chosen not to take part in the fighting tonight. Oryou roars, rising to encircle the black pillar of billowing smoke, red eyes shimmering in the fire and Ryoma on her back, urging her towards the source of the fire, an Archer with two horns that runs to meet Oryou and Ryoma with a naginata clutched in her hands.

On the opposite end of the courtyard, the others have begun their assault, the dragon Berserker locking Raikou and Archer down with constant barrages of fire while the three oni alternate their attacks on Kintoki. A quick leap brings Okita to Kintoki’s side, shoving aside a strike from the oni with fox ears rather than horns, and Kintoki’s axe cleaves through empty space, sending the oni with flaming hands and another with a gourd on her back leaping away to safety.

The heat of battle settles over Okita, distilling it into a series of moments that flow, one to the next, in her memory; there is Raikou breaking free of the fire to run to their aid, using the heat from the growing fires to call lightning to her blade; there is the scream that Archer makes when the dragon Berserker finally overwhelms him, the fire consuming him, leaving only a fragment of his Saint Graph behind. There’s the instant when Raikou’s lightning arrives, illuminating Oryou curled around, scales streaked through with blood that both is and isn’t her own and Ryoma still clinging to her, pistol out, taking what shots he can. There’s the flickering of fire, and through the smoke that rises to drift above the carnage, Okita thinks she sees the whipping of a cape and the bright red of blood amidst the fire, but she can’t be sure.

A flaming sword cleaves the air before her, rushing for her; Okita manages to block the strike, but she doesn’t expect the fox-eared oni to lunge at her through the fire, katana sinking deep into her chest and just as quickly wrenched free. The last she remembers is blood arcing and splattering over her enemies’ faces and Kintoki’s, and the merciful release of darkness before she can register the pain of claws digging through her Saint Graph.

* * *

Okita doesn’t come back until the next day, waking up under a hole burned through the roof, the afternoon sun a golden glare in her eyes. She’s not the last to awake- that would be Izou, emerging from his room howling about being burned by an oni is not how he wanted to go.

His shouts are quickly silenced, and a short while later, the door to Okita’s room slides open. “Hey, Saber?” Archer pokes his head in, looking around. “Good, you’re awake. Are you in any shape to travel?”

“What’s going on?” Okita groans, pushing herself upright, ignoring the dizziness that washes over her. Someone would have said that getting killed earned you the right to lay in your futon all day, but Okita can’t remember who, only that her current teammates would never say a thing like that. “Don’t tell me the Grail is moving.”

“No, but we are overdue, aren’t we?” muses Archer. “Rider wants us to go get the other team while we can.”

“We found their base?”

Archer grins, sheepish and fierce all at once. “Well, you’d better see this for yourself,” he says.

With Archer’s help, Okita manages to wobble her way out into the courtyard, joining the rest of her team in staring open-mouthed at something in the sky. When Okita emerges from under the shadow of the awnings, it becomes obvious immediately: a great pillar of black smoke billows up from the other side of the mountain, an inferno no one oni could ever hope to achieve.

“What’s going on over there?” Okita asks.

“We don’t know,” Ryoma tells her. “But if they’re infighting, now’s a good time to get some payback for last night.”

“How do we know it’s not a trap?”

“We’ll go in on Oryou, if Oryou is willing, of course.They don’t have anything that can bring her down in one shot. Depending on what we see, we’ll decide whether to go down then.”

“I like it,” Kintoki says, spinning his axe around.

“You just want to kill more oni,” scoffs Izou.

“Like you don’t enjoy killing yourself, manslayer Assassin.”

“Well-” Izou grins, running fingers through his matted hair. “You’re not wrong, you’re not wrong!”

“Oryou will transport everyone if Ryoma will promise to make it up to her later.”

“When haven’t I?” Ryoma grins, patting Oryou’s side. Oryou returns his smile, all teeth, and a moment later, a long black dragon stands where Oryou once floated, gazing down at her teammates, tongue lashing out to test the air.

Once everyone is atop Oryou, clinging precariously to her scales or to each other, Oryou leaps into the sky, air rushing in torrents around her as she flies over the mountain. Briefly, Okita finds herself wondering if Ryoma and Oryou could have met on a mountain like this, under such a clear sky.

Oryou swoops low over the forest as they approach the billowing smoke, and immediately it’s clear that this is no trap: the remains of a wooden barricade smolder like coals as Oryou lands beside them, and beyond, the rest of the enemy camp still burns.

“Where is everyone?” Izou drops to the ground beside a now-human Oryou, glancing warily at the surrounding trees. He runs a hand over one, fingers tracing the curved pockmarks in the bark.

“They’re nearby.” Kintoki’s fingers drum the hilt of his axe. “I sense them. I think they might be out chasing something.”

“Well, they’re coming back,” Archer says with a glance at Ryoma. “What’s the plan, Rider?”

“What direction are they coming from?”

“Down the mountain,” says Raikou.

“We’ll take cover in the trees. Archer, I want you at the highest point you can find without being seen. Kintoki will go with Archer and Assassin, and Raikou will stay with Saber and myself. We’ll wait for them to come in, then draw their attention with Archer. As soon as they’ve reached the forest, we’ll attack them from both sides.”

“And move fast.” Kintoki hefts his axe onto his shoulder, casting his gaze down the mountain. “They’re coming back pretty quick.”

Archer nods, already moving into the treeline and scrambling up the base of a broad tree, quickly lost amidst the foliage. Izou follows after them, grumbling incoherently, retreating further into the forest with Kintoki.

“Do you think one of their own did this?” Ryoma asks Raikou as they begin to head into the trees to conceal themselves. “You do have the most experience with oni out of all of us.”

“Unlikely,” Raikou hums. “They do like to fight amongst themselves, but given that they also have us to take their aggression out on, it seems improbable.”

“I’m starting to think Okita and Izou might be on to something,” sighs Ryoma. “As crazy as it sounds.”

“Oryou did not see anyone in the forest when we flew over.”

“Maybe they hid very well? Wait-” Raikou holds up a hand, the other going to her katana. “They’re coming.”

“Alright, be ready. As soon as they pass us and go for Archer, we’ll start moving in.”

Okita nods, the three of them slowly unsheathing their katanas and holding them ready. This is the hardest part to endure, the waiting, when all of Okita sings with the anticipation of combat and the lingering hope that her sickness won’t hold her back again.

The cracking of branches underfoot and the shouts of approaching voices draws the attention of Okita and her companions. Ryoma and Raikou duck behind a fallen tree, its trunk fiercely sheared in two, leaving jagged edges protruding from both log and stump, more pockmarks around the base marking stray hits from whatever had felled it. Okita scrambles to join them behind cover, giving the area a quick once-over as she does, and nearly freezes mid-stride at the familiar tremor of red and black that flits quickly through the shadows on the opposite side of the clearing.

“Saber!” Ryoma’s hand seizes the back of her kimono and hauls her behind the log, concealing her from sight. He’s just in time- another moment, and the twanging of Archer’s bow sings from the tops of the trees, arrows raining down to the shouts of their enemy and the cries warning of ambush. Okita hears two of the oni run past, going after Archer, and another two stop just short of entering the forest, warily watching the trees. It’s the best they’ll get, Okita thinks, and Ryoma seems to agree, until the sudden report of gunfire breaks the silence in the clearing.

All eyes go to Ryoma, his pistol still in its holster. He shakes his head with a shrug, chances a glance over the top of the log. The other two oni are running off in the direction of the sound, and bringing up the rear are the dragon Berserker and their new Saber, flitting around the edges of the burning base, waiting for their companions to return.

Ryoma’s group falls upon them with the sudden force of Raikou’s lightning and Oryou’s bite and Okita’s sword. Caught off guard, they stand no chance: Raikou picks out the pieces of their three Saint Graphs and takes a bit more for each of them, and then they’re moving to reinforce Kintoki, swords flashing under the trees, Okita burying hers in the oni Berserker’s back to match Izou’s attack from the front. Kintoki settles for hacking into the Assassin with his axe until she’s yielded enough portions of her Saint Graph for all of them, absorbed with eager smiles and revenge glimmering in their eyes.

They leave, again traveling with Oryou’s help, before the enemy Saber and Archer can return. It’s not a perfect victory, but it’s enough: they are fuller than before, their grins wide, the infusion of new magical energy like a balm to soothe the ache of last night’s defeats. Kintoki and Raikou volunteer to keep watch for a counterattack, one Okita knows won’t be coming. Her instinct tells her, in the same way that it whispers that tonight will be one of restful sleep uninterrupted by the pain in her chest, that the enemy will be out chasing something in the forest until the break of dawn, hunting a ghost that- another clenching of her chest, another gasp- seems content to lurk around Okita, promising death where it goes.

* * *

This is what Okita remembers from her dreams: Flashes of red between the trees, glimpses of a brilliant smile and flickers of gold and black. She starts keeping to the insides of their base, away from the walls, venturing out only to keep watch or to go on missions with her team. The winter frost settles hard over the ground, and slowly Okita sees less of the outside at all, keeping at first to her room, and then to her futon.

It’s there that Ryoma finds her one day, with her chest aching and struggling to maintain even a semblance of regular breathing, his sword in his hands and Oryou’s arms draped around his neck like a scarf.

“Okita?” he says. “It’s time to go.”

“I’m not-” Okita coughs, hands flying to conceal her face. She hates it when Ryoma looks at her with pity in his eyes; she’s Okita Souji, First Captain of the Shinsengumi, and even though they’re on the same side, she still can’t allow herself to accept the compassion of the man she once intended to kill. “Archer’s got watch,” she manages to say.

“It’s not that- the Grail is moving. That might be why your condition is worsening,” he adds as an afterthought, and for a moment, it’s not Ryoma in the doorway, but someone far shorter, arms folded over her chest and golden greaves sparkling with the radiance of the summer sun. “-almost ready to go, so we’ll leave when everyone’s done. Alright?”

“Yes,” Okita murmurs, forcing herself to sit up with a wince and another tremor of her chest. She’d hoped that the Grail wouldn’t move until the frost on the ground had begun to thaw and the light air of spring would give her some reprieve from the cold, but it couldn’t be helped- Okita freezes, eyes wide, and looks into the shadows of her room, from which the echo of a voice she can’t hear the tone of, only its words, rings out.

As expected, nothing is there. Okita shakes her head, taps her palm to the side of it a few times. This isn’t the time to be spacing out: they’re all vulnerable now, so the sooner they get moving to the new Grail site, the safe they’ll be.

That’s the one thing that’s changed from what she can remember, Okita thinks as she makes her way from her room to their makeshift storage room several doors down. Maybe it’s because Raikou, Kintoki, and Archer can sense their enemies, or because Raikou and Kintoki are so good at repelling them, but Ryoma insists they travel as a group. It was the one thing he’d insisted on from the beginning, and Okita had put up little protest: after all, even if the enemies gave a warning to their approach, her sickness wouldn’t.

(And there beneath the surface of her thoughts shivers another memory; water streaming down the open maw of a dark cave, her head in another’s lap; gentle words in that same unknowable voice; Okita thinks this must have been a distant, forgotten memory from when she was alive).

All Okita needs to take is the small bag of cleaning materials she keeps stowed away with the rest of the team’s less frequently used items. The small closet has already been cleaned out: Kintoki’s cigars and Izou’s spare robes are gone, and Archer’s extra arrows are all that remain, sitting neatly in a spare quiver against the back wall. Okita plucks the small bag with its wooden container from a shelf and tucks it into her kimono, grunting when a corner digs a little too hard against her chest. A quick adjustment, and the door is shut, heading back to her room.

From the courtyard, the sound of laughter: Oryou, Ryoma, and Izou, sitting in a circle, waiting for their companions to finish readying themselves. Oryou frowns at the headless remains of a frog-shaped snow pile, Ryoma gently patting her side and Izou rolling in a fit of giggles in the snow, not even attempting to try and stand. Ryoma waves as Okita passes, and Okita calls out to him.

“Do you know where it’s going?” she asks.

“West, and either a bit north or south,” Ryoma replies. “Don’t worry, Oryou’s got the trail of it.”

“Do you think the others will try coming after us?”

Ryoma frowns, and a different voice nearby says, “They won’t.”

Raikou walks out into the courtyard, her armor strapped to her body and the small satchel of her belongings strapped to that. “Oni are self-centered creatures. They know that if they attack us, they’d certainly have an advantage, and likely kill many of us. In turn, we’re likely to kill at least one of them, and who it would be is a game of chance. So long as the possibility exists that they might die, they won’t make a move on us.”

“How reassuring.”

“Say whatever you will about oni, but at least they’re kinda predictable.” Kintoki hooks a thumb into his belt, adjusts his coat over his shoulders. “We almost ready?”

“Archer’s taking forever,” Izou drawls. “But him and Saber are the last ones.”

“I’ll be just a moment.”

Okita heads back to her room and stands in the doorway, gazing wistfully at the bare space, hardly 5 tatami mats in size, that she’d nevertheless grown to call her home. There’s very little to collect here, other than her katana, quickly slipped under her obi, and the black scarf she doesn’t recall having when she was alive, with its strange golden flower embroidered at the end.

That’s the two things Okita meant to collect, and yet there’s a third. Okita crouches by the futon she won’t see again for a long time, if ever, and runs her fingers over the pillow. From outside, the rising chatter of voices; Ryoma’s calls out- “Okita, are you almost done?”

“I’ll be out in a second!” she shouts back, and she immediately regrets it. Her throat clenches; she squeezes her eyes shut, but that doesn’t erase the object by her pillow, too solid to be a leftover fragment of a dream, too odd to be Okita’s; but it’s in her room, so it has to be hers.

In a few minutes, Okita will walk back out into the cold and join her teammates heading west through the mountains and the snow, leaving behind this forest, and hopefully the mysterious red ghost that haunts its grounds. For now, Okita allows herself this moment of bewilderment, fingers reaching to slowly curl around the neck of another small bag, one that rattles when lifted and settles comfortably in her palm, its weight and sweetness hauntingly familiar.


	4. 4 - 八重桜

The familiar rise of the wooden gate peers over the peak of the hill, just as Okita said it would. Izou is running up the final steps, whooping loudly and calling dibs on the first pick of rooms, followed closely by Kintoki, who on principle refuses to come in second for anything.

“You weren’t kidding,” Ryoma says, tilting his hat back to get a better view of the buildings rising up above the trees. “How’d you know this was here?”

“I…” Okita plays with the frayed edges of her scarf, adjusting it around her face. “I just remember,” she says at last, taking in the worn wooden pillars and the crossbeam over head that she faintly recalls a pair of legs dangling over, accompanied by a voice ringing out into the night.

“From before you ran into us?” Archer asks her.

“Yes.” Okita doesn’t follow up with the rest of what she wants to say- that she remembers so little of the first round of combatants that she can’t even tell if this had been her own base, or the enemies’. The sense of safety that settles over her once she passes the gates answers that for her, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders.

“Where did you stay before?” Raikou asks her, gazing curiously around the courtyard. Okita sees her staring at a building that she knows, somehow, used to be a training room; Izou has already made it to the back, shouting something about a bath.

“I…” Okita’s feet lead her down one of the wooden walkways, fingers trailing loosely over the wood and paper screens. The paint that once adorned the doors has begun to chip and flake, some of the symbols now nothing more than scattered patches of color with no meaning to them. Okita slows in front of the second door to the left, its entrance bare and left open, a single futon in the middle of the room a near exact match to the room she’d left behind in the mountains. “This is it,” she says.

“Well, seniority goes,” Archer says. “Raikou?”

“Is there one closer to the gates?” Okita hears Raikou say, moving away from the main group. “I want to be able to see, just in case we get attacked…”

“Ryoma. Oryou disagrees with this room.”

Okita turns and pokes her head back into the hall, watching Oryou and Ryoma pick their room out. They’ve stopped at the very end where the hallway opens back into grassy space, and the door and surrounding wood in front of them covered in remnant patches of vivid red.

“Can Oryou cover the door in frogs?”

“Ah, if we can find a way to get some paint, then sure…”

There’s a thump in the hallway, and Oryou and Ryoma spin around, looking at Okita. They’re taller than before- no, Okita is just on her knees, the sudden impact reeling through her body, disturbing the fragile balance of her health and sending her leaning against the doorframe, coughing into a trembling fist.

“Okita?”

Ryoma is kneeling by her now, hands on her shoulders; it’s not Ryoma though, but a girl whose hat glimmers with a golden sun, red cape flowing over her arms as she takes Okita by the hands and gets her to stand-

Okita flings herself back to a cry from Ryoma, blood beginning to drip onto her scarf. Oryou’s voice echoes in her ears nearby; there are hands upon her, taking her to her futon, trying to settle her down. Okita doesn’t have the strength to fight them, not now, but she can’t remember if she ever did- she doesn’t think so. She remembers- the weight of the blankets settle over her now, and someone is telling her to sleep; Ryoma, perhaps- gentle hands adjusting her pillow, running through her hair.

Okita closes her eyes, settles back against the futon, listens to Ryoma and Oryou linger for a while before finally starting to leave. Another cough creeps up her chest, and she pushes it back down, ignoring the taste of iron that leaps up to touch the back of her tongue. She won’t find sleep so soon, not with her sickness keeping her awake like this, but still Okita keeps her eyes tightly shut, refusing to look at anything, not even the ceiling, for fear that a flicker of a red not her own will catch her eye again.

* * *

The watch of the first night is disrupted not by fire, but by the roll of thunder rippling overhead. Okita bolts awake, heart racing, to the shouts of the other Heroic Spirits being roused from their sleep. Okita’s next actions are instinctual: reach for her katana, tuck it into her obi, throw open the door, run down the hall and into the courtyard, hand never once leaving her sword, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Ryoma joins her in the hall, Oryou floating ahead of him, red eyes fixed intently on the plume of smoke dispersing slowly over the trees.

There are four Heroic Spirits already at the gate: Raikou and Archer, their weapons out and trained upon the girl held firmly in Kintoki’s grasp, his axe leveled at her neck. He gazes at her, a bead of sweat rolling down his clenched jaw, the uneasiness in his eyes matching the sudden wave of vertigo that crashes over Okita, threatening to roll her world sideways. The ground gives way beneath her, rushing up towards her hands and knees; she hits it coughing, choked as much by the sudden clenching of her throat as the faint wisps of smoke and iron that strangles her senses, accompanied by an inexplicable jolt of warmth through her chest that just might be fondness. Why she would ever think of such things as welcome is beyond her, but that’s a thought Okita doesn’t have the luxury to entertain now, not when breathing is an act that requires as much fortitude as effort.

“Kintoki?” Ryoma approaches, katana in one hand and pistol in the other, both raised but not yet aimed at Kintoki’s captive. “What’s going on- Saber?”

“I’m-” Okita shakes her head, the ground beneath her flecked with red to match the cape of the girl in front of her, the specter from her dreams and from the forest.

“Woah, Kintoki, you got her?!” Izou rushes over, having wandered the long way around to the courtyard. The tip of his katana tugs at the edge of her cape, cutting the fabric, and Izou leaps away as quickly as he came, shouting, “She’s real! See, I told you guys!”

“That’s not the only thing you were right about.” Kintoki lifts his axe for his teammates to see the clotted crimson sticking to its edge. “Something’s wrong with her Saint Graph. I can’t take anything from it, and she can’t die.”

“What?” several voices say at once.

“I mean it! I saw someone sneaking around in the shadows and hit her in the chest with my axe, she went down, and I couldn’t get anything off her Saint Graph, so I just left her there. Then five minutes later, she’s wandering up to the gate asking if I won’t do that again!”

“So what is she?” Izou peers closer, only to be sent scurrying back by a glare of narrowed eyes. “Some new type of Heroic Spirit?”

“You could say that,” the girl says, her voice tinged with amusement. Okita fights past the tremors it sends down her spine and rises to her feet, only to find the girl staring undisguisedly at her. “But as you can tell, not one involved in your fight.”

“Not involved?” Ryoma repeats. “So you’re a thirteenth Heroic Spirit.”

“Yeah, sounds about right.”

“Are there any more of you?”

“Nope.” The girl’s teeth flash savagely under the moonlight, a grin that reminds Okita of someone likewise dressed in black, taller, who might have once stood under this same gate. Okita winces, pressing a hand to her forehead; the girl’s eyes leave her to survey Ryoma, and her stomach twists unpleasantly. “I’m one of a kind.”

“If you claim to be uninvolved, why are you here?” asks Archer.

“I’m uninvolved,” the girl replies. “That doesn’t mean I don’t like watching.”

“And why do you like that?” Raikou says. “If you’re simply watching, why come so close to our base?”

“Hey, maybe I just like some danger in my entertainment, that’s all.” The girl shrugs, glancing at each Heroic Spirit in turn- except, Okita notices, for her.

“I don’t like this,” Izou grumbles. “Things are bad enough with the oni already. Having a rogue Heroic Spirit on the loose?”

“But she warned us about the last attack,” protests Archer. “Isn’t that right, ah…”

“You can call me Avenger,” the girl says. “Since Archer is already taken.”

“So, was that a warning?” Ryoma presses.

“You could call it that. There hasn’t been a good battle in a while, after all.”

“You only warned us so we’d put up a fight!” Izou storms forward, batting aside Kintoki’s arm and winding a fist into the front of Avenger’s uniform, nearly lifting her off her feet; the tips of her golden greaves scrape the ground, and yet Avenger looks unperturbed. “You’d rather us get bloodied rather than have our throats slit-”

“Assassin, that’s enough.” Ryoma steps between the two, lowering Izou’s arm with both of his hands.

“Like hell it is! That thing right there isn’t a Heroic Spirit, it’s some sort of monster!”

“Well, that’s the first time I’ve been called that in this life,” Avenger laughs.

“Oryou does not like her either.” Oryou settles herself on the earth next to Ryoma, leaning in close to inspect Avenger. “Oryou thinks something feels wrong.”

“We can’t just let her go,” agrees Kintoki. “She might go running off to the others and tell them where our base is, or worse.”

“You know, this house has a basement,” Raikou chimes in. “Kintoki and I found it while we were exploring.”

“But it can’t keep a Heroic Spirit down-”

“Not if we find a way to bind her powers.”

“And how do you suggest that?”

“Oryou might have an idea…”

Okita’s head whirls with her teammates’ chatter, most of it lost in the ringing cacophony that follows each of her coughing fits. No one pays attention when Okita steps forward, pressing her hands to Avenger’s coat, feeling for the telltale firmness of any sort of weapon. She tries not to meet Avenger’s eyes, tries not to think of what that confident grin means, or why it wavers when Okita’s hands settle near her waist to unbuckle a sword belt, which she holds up for her teammates to see.

“You didn’t even check her, Kintoki.”

“I’m sorry, I was more concerned about why a Heroic Spirit I killed was back so soon-”

“Hey, you missed something too, Saber.” Archer holds a hand out, and in his open palm is a bag matching the one Okita had found in her room before they’d left, just as heavy with sugar candy that bumps and clicks with the bag’s every movement. “But I don’t think this is necessarily a weapon.”

“Could be poison?” Kintoki guesses. “Oni stuff?”

“No, that’s mine,” Avenger says with a grin. “What can I say? I like snacking on sweet things.”

“Old and dull as fuck.” That would be Izou, grabbing the katana from Okita and pulling it a few inches out of its scabbard to inspect it. He brings it close, gives it a sniff, and raises an eyebrow. “Rusted to all hell, too.”

“A rusted katana and a bag of candy,” Ryoma sighs. “I guess you won’t be so kind as to tell us your True Name, Avenger?”

“I think I’ll keep that to myself for a little longer.” Avenger’s smile broadens, and she raises her shoulders in a shrug, cape falling neatly behind her. “Besides, what can you do if I don’t tell you? Kill me? Injure me? The Grail can heal nearly anything, given enough time.”

“Not if we cut you off from it.” Ryoma raises a spear in his hands that Okita’s never seen before, handed to him by Oryou. “As much as we appreciate your warning, we can’t be certain that you won’t endanger us if we let you go. You’ll be spending a while in our basement, I’m afraid, until we can ensure you aren’t going to be a threat to us.”

“Oh, is that so?” Okita tenses, ready for Avenger to attempt to break away or fight them, but Avenger merely shrugs again and steps towards the spear, flicking the point with a finger. “Then it can’t be helped! Will all of you be coming with me? Shouldn’t one of you stay and keep watch just in case this is a trap?”

“Now that makes me think this entire thing is a setup,” Kintoki groans. “Raikou, stay with me? I don’t feel anyone coming, but who knows.”

“Yes, that’s for the best,” Raikou nods. “Rider, we’ll entrust you with the rest. The basement is behind the training room- under it, actually, but the entrance is hidden in one of the wooden panels-”

Avenger is already moving off, Izou and Archer hurrying to keep up with her as she rounds the corner of the training hall, knocking sporadically on the back wall. One of the panels wobbles loose and falls flat onto the ground when her fist meets it, revealing a small, dark passageway yawning into the earth.

“Creepy,” Oryou says, joining Ryoma and Okita as they walk over to the others. “Oryou wonders if frogs might be down there.”

“I doubt that,” Okita mutters. “Anyone have a light?”

Her question is just as quickly answered by Avenger: she strides down a set of steps roughly cut into the soil and covered with spare stones, which rock precariously under her feet as she descends, both hands covered in flames. By the light of the fire, Okita can see the rest of the small ‘basement’: it’s little more than a square room with barely enough room to stand up straight in, slightly smaller than the training room in width and length, two thirds of it gated off by iron bars and a door secured with an old fashioned lock, the key to which is so covered with rust that Okita’s surprised that Ryoma is able to pull it out. A tiny slit lined by stones that Okita thought was some sort of grate from the surface provides the only natural light, which barely manages to reach the center of the room.

“Charming,” Izou says. “Makes you wonder who lived here before we came along.”

“Given what we’ve found, perhaps a samurai family,” muses Archer. “It’s not impossible.”

“We’ll have to ask you to step inside, Avenger.” Ryoma has managed to rattle the lock free of the iron links it was clasped around, and holds the cell door open just wide enough for Avenger to pass through. “And Saber, you’re the most experienced among us with this sort of thing, I think-”

“Understood.” Okita tails Avenger into the cell, eyeing the worn iron chains and cuffs attached to a link welded and nailed to a small metal plate on the wall. She has her doubts that this will manage to hold anyone, let alone a Heroic Spirit, but Avenger is strangely docile, letting Okita wrap each cuff around her wrists and clasp them shut. Her head twitches when Okita’s fingers trail over the inside of her arm, and Okita is struck with the sudden reflex to do something similar; she shakes it off, testing the strength of the chain. “It might hold,” she says, “but I don’t really think this is a good idea.”

“Wait- here.” Ryoma passes Okita the spear, gesturing to Avenger. “This is what I pulled out of Oryou on the day I met her. It’s a sealing spear, you see.”

“And you want me to stick it in her?” Okita’s voice betrays her distaste, and she tells herself it’s simply because stabbing a prisoner you want kept alive is never the way to go, not because of any lingering warmth in her chest that inexplicably hasn’t faded in the cold of the cell. “Won’t she lose her magical energy after enough time?”

“Maybe we could take it out for an hour each day?” Archer asks. “We don’t really know how this works, after all.”

“We’ll seal her off for a day and see how she handles it,” Ryoma says. “Saber, come down tomorrow and check on her, and let us know how she’s doing?”

“I will. Shall I do it, then?”

Ryoma nods, and Okita levels the spear at Avenger, adjusting her grip on it as she debates where the best place to stab her would be. Nowhere near the chest for sure, but the stomach would pose just as much trouble. Finally, she settles for turning the spear vertically and sinking it into Avenger’s side, giving just enough room for it to have enough flesh to grab on to. Avenger doesn’t cry out, barely reacts other than a sudden shutting of her eyes and the hiss of air being sucked in through tightly gritted teeth. The point of the spear impacts the wall behind her, sinking into the stone, and there Avenger kneels, held to the wall, the front of her uniform slowly beginning to darken.

Now Okita expects what’s surely a facade to break, for Avenger to snap and swear at them all, to try and tug the spear from her body and wield it against them. Instead, Avenger merely opens her eyes and takes a few more settling breaths before trying to adjust her legs comfortably beneath her. Okita retreats hastily through the door, watching as Ryoma locks it shut and hangs the key on the opposite wall, far out of reach of even someone reaching with the help of a spear.

“That tickles,” Avenger says, closing her eyes. The flame in her hands flutters, shivers, quenches as the flow of magical power through her body tapers into nothing. “Ah- yeah, now I feel it.”

“But you’ll live?” asks Ryoma.

“But I’ll live.” Avenger waves a hand, grunting as her arm knocks against the shaft of the spear. “Now get lost, all of you. I’ll be here whenever you remember I’m down here.”

“Saber?”

“I’ll remember,” Okita sighs, heading for the stairs. “I’ll do it after I finish the watch.”

“Hey, isn’t Kintoki-”

“He hasn’t had the chance to sleep since we got here,” Okita says. “He’ll need it, in case the oni come calling. And I owe him, since he caught…” Okita doesn’t even bother to look back as she gestures at the cell. She turns her head just far enough to catch her teammates’ understanding nods, and then she’s fleeing out under the canopy of distant stars, waving Kintoki down from the gate and swapping spots with him. Raikou insists on staying, but Okita knows she’ll be content to walk the grounds- with her, idle chatter is reserved only for Kintoki.

Her ghost, the girl in red, is real. Okita had always known this, but having it confirmed troubles her in a way that recurring dreams and unwanted visions don’t; she could ask about those flashes of what might be memory, but how would she know the answers she’d receive would be true? And then, the matter of the strange twisting in her chest whenever their eyes meet- suddenly, Okita doesn’t want to be the one Ryoma entrusts with checking on Avenger tomorrow, but it’s too late. She’s agreed- Okita’s train of thought shatters as a set of weak coughs shakes her body, little drops of red nestling into her palm. The taste of iron drives all thoughts of Avenger for her mind, and for the first time in both life and death, Okita finds herself grateful for this distraction, a prospect she hates almost as much as her visions of red.

* * *

Okita’s watch ends at daybreak, when Oryou and Ryoma come out into the courtyard and relieve her and Raikou, Oryou lifting Ryoma up easily and settling against his side atop the beam overlooking the forest. Raikou stops circling the edge of the base, admiring the makeshift path her footsteps have worn into the dirt, and heads back towards her room, obviously intending to finish her interrupted nap.

That leaves Okita with the unpleasant task of returning to the damp cavern beneath the training room, her only solace to be found in the brightness of the morning sun filling the cell, a long line of it that falls just short of the cell. Avenger is already awake, stretching herself out as best as she can with the spear digging into her side and her hands stuck at shoulder height.

“Good morning,” she chirps as Okita walks over. “Don’t you look well rested.”

“I’m pulling out the spear to inspect your Saint Graph.” Okita draws her sword as she approaches, holding it in one hand and unlocking the cell with the other. She angles the blade in front of her as she slips in, keeping it pointed at Avenger’s heart. Kintoki says Avenger can’t die, but maybe Okita, who holds the moniker of manslayer, can figure out a way to kill her where the golden boy cannot. “Stay back. If you try anything, I’ll run you through.”

“Will you?” Avenger’s eyes shine bright with amusement. “You could try. I don’t think it would take very well.”

“Maybe I’d do it when you have the spear in you.” Okita’s voice drops an octave, taut and quiet. She hopes, rather than knows, that it sounds like it once did when she’d been in the Shinsengumi: the voice of a warrior ready to strike at a moment’s notice and not that of someone worn down by battle and sickness. The faint flare of trepidation in her chest is quenched by determination: she’ll do what Ryoma said, nothing more, and report back to him. She won’t let Avenger scare her any longer, now that she’s been proven to be just another Heroic Servant and not some ghost story.

Okita inches closer, and Avenger lashes out, one hand shooting as high as it can go to allow the other to reach out for Okita with the newfound slack in the chain. Avenger’s hand wraps around Okita’s katana, palm digging into the blade, not even wincing when Okita instinctively jabs forward, cutting deep into her hand.

“I’m not going anywhere. You know that, right?” Avenger’s smile is rigid, almost reminding Okita of a skull’s perpetual leering. She doesn’t bother looking at her blood dripping off Okita’s sword: her eyes are all for Okita, and she tugs on the sword, trying to bring her in closer. “Maybe this is exactly where I want to be.”

“You wanted to be locked down here with a spear stuck in you all day.”

“Well, maybe not that last part.” Avenger snorts, concealing a laugh, and lets go of Okita’s sword. “But that’s nothing I can’t work through.”

“Who are you?” The point of Okita’s sword hovers at Avenger’s shoulder, wavering between the floor and the temptingly vulnerable curve of Avenger’s neck. “I know you’re playing with us, Avenger. No, what’s your True Name?”

“I already said, I won’t be telling you all that yet.” Avenger tilts her head, considering the question. “But I guess I can tell you that in another time, I was called Demon Archer.”

“You were a Heroic Spirit that fought like the rest of us,” Okita says. “But now you’re not. What happened?”

“I think I’ll keep that a secret for now. You all seem to be happy keeping me down here, and I’ll need something to keep you interested once you’ve gotten tired of having me.”

“Right,” Okita scoffs instinctively. It’s something she’d learned from her days in the Shinsengumi; listening to an enemy’s chatter was the easiest way to get drawn in, distracted, killed. She wishes it didn’t come so naturally now, for Avenger is already looking away, and the chance to ask her about their predecessors, or if they’d maybe known each other, is long past. “Stay still,” she mutters, sheathing her katana and taking hold of the spear with both hands. “This is going to hurt.”

“Somehow, I’ll live- ah!” Avenger jerks back, head slamming hard into the stone behind her, Okita taking a step back as the spear comes loose. Avenger’s Saint Graph flickers into view a moment later, no worse for the wear, albeit trying to find enough magical energy to repair the suddenly gaping wounds in her side.

“You look fine.” Okita frowns, moving forward and touching the spear to the already closing gash. “But re-sealing you will be difficult.”

“Do me a favor and tell that Rider of yours that he can just leave the damn spear in me from now on,” Avenger sighs. “Oh yeah, and can you give me a little more room on this thing? I’m short, so it’s kind of hard for me to sit.” She rattles the chains holding her to the wall, gesturing at the next loop over, which sits a little closer to the floor and further from the door.

“Fine. I’m still sealing you first.”

“Fair’s fair-” Avenger begins to say, and then she’s biting back a howl as the spear digs at her flesh again, pushed in slowly this time, the point struggling to pierce through her entirely. Okita stops there- it’d be useless to pin Avenger to the wall when she’s just going to move her around, and Ryoma had never said that the spear needed to be stuck through both a person and an object to activate its power.

Two quick turns of the key release Avenger from her chains, and Okita points at the other set of shackles, not bothering to pull Avenger over herself. She tells herself she imagines the fleeting look of disappointment that crosses Avenger’s face as she locks this new set shut around her wrists, testing the chains again to make sure she can’t break free.

“This team of yours is pretty nice,” Avenger says when Okita’s left the cell and is standing in front of it, trying to get the lock to snap closed. “Cohesive.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ah-” There’s a gentle clinking, and Okita looks up to see Avenger having pulled herself within reach of the cell bars, resting her chin on them with her arms nearly fully extended behind her. “I guess I’m just glad to see you’re doing okay, Souji.”

Okita’s stomach lurches, her name ringing in her ears. No one here calls her that- everyone who knows her True Name calls her Okita; those who don’t call her Saber. Even if they did, that couldn’t tell Okita anything about why her stomach leaps at that gentle sound, why her heart is set to racing by this soft, seemingly affectionate uttering of her name. She feels the lock click shut between her hands and releases it, taking swift steps back towards the entrance, hardly looking as she sets the key back in its place.

No- that name should mean nothing to her. She’s Sakura Saber; she’s the First Captain, Okita; no one here knows her well enough to call her Souji. But just the memory of that sound makes her heart swell, and her lips grow numb and heavy with a reply that’s long been lost to her. The why and how, she doesn’t know- either she’s forgotten, or this is all an elaborate lie, and it wouldn’t be an Avenger they’ve caught in that cell, but a Caster. Saint Graphs don’t lie, though. Somewhere in that tangle of Graphs is someone who knew her, someone who had- someone who she’d known enough to entrust with her given name.

Okita casts her eyes around the room, looking for anything to break their stalemate, to draw Avenger’s attention away from her. Avenger’s sword shines at her from the corner of the room, the lacquered scabbard scratched and pitted, a hint of rust creeping around the edge of the guard. She strides over to it and sweeps it up in her hands without hesitation, glaring back at Avenger’s cell.

“I’m taking this,” she declares, tucking it next to her own katana. “You’ve been neglecting to clean it.”

“Hey, you really shouldn’t-”

“It’s foolish to let the enemy’s weapon sit around unattended for so long, anyway,” Okita continues, speaking louder to drown out Avenger’s protests. “For all we know, you could’ve laid an enchantment on it before surrendering to us.”

“I’m telling you, you don’t want to do that.”

“Funny, you don’t look like me,” Okita retorts, already retreating up the stairs. “So how would you know what I want?”

She doesn’t bother sticking around for Avenger’s reply, heading straight for the back of the house instead. The forge is there, as she’d remembered, along with the sharpening stones she’d hoped to find. Okita gathers a bucket of water from the well and sits beside the empty forge with it, sorting the stones out before plucking one up between her fingers and running it over the edge.

The rust is caked on thick over most of the blade, proving hard to remove with a simple honing. Okita sighs and dips her hand into the bucket, lightly dripping water over the section she’d been polishing to scatter the rust she’d managed to remove. A few flakes float off onto the floor, and Okita returns the stone to the sword, her actions falling into a steady pattern.

It’s maybe the seventh time that Okita is cleaning the rust off when she smells it: the stench she knows so well, one of aged blood and perhaps a hint of sickness; no longer is the forge empty, but it crackles with weak orange light, sparks darting out to be quenched in a pouring storm; Okita tries not to double over as her throat and chest and stomach clench simultaneously, and the girl in red in front of her reaches for her, worry in her voice, calling to her, calling _ her- _

Okita looks down, at the ruddy red staining the knees of her hakama. It’s nothing a burst of magical energy can’t get rid of, and yet Okita can’t materialize it. She can’t think, she can’t _ breathe_. It’s all she can do to jam Avenger’s sword back in its scabbard and throw her polishing stone back in its place before storming back towards the training room.

Okita’s footsteps thundering down the stones announce her presence far before Avenger can actually see her. By the time she’s made it down, Avenger is up on her feet and at the bars again, straining to keep herself there. She calls out to Okita as she sets the katana back against the wall with a clatter, hoping the sleeves of her kimono conceal the shaking of her hands.

“Hey,” Avenger calls from her cell. “Souji, are you okay-”

“No!” Okita whirls around, eyes blazing, her face stricken. Gone is that sickening feeling in her chest, replaced by anger, burning hot through her skin and coloring her cheeks. “I’m not okay! You, you keep getting into my head somehow, I keep seeing you everywhere, and now you’re here-” Okita storms up to the bars, hands clenched into fists, one of which darts through the gaps in the iron to seize the front of Avenger’s coat. She thinks the smaller girl might’ve grunted, might’ve twitched to try and gasp for air or relieve her shoulders from the strain of being pulled so far, but Okita can’t care.

“Are you really an Avenger, or a Caster?” Okita gives Avenger a shake, watches her wince, feels nothing but rage spiraling through her in a building crescendo. Avenger doesn’t answer, and Okita pushes: “Because we’ve never had an Avenger before. You’re just a Caster using magic, aren’t you? And you don’t even know me, just my name. You could’ve guessed it when you saw me fight, or someone told you. That’s what’s going on, right?”

Okita’s words leave her mouth hot and biting, and yet they fall flat as soon as she hears herself speak them. She knows she’s wrong; she knows that the Saint Graph couldn’t be mistaken, that whatever this Heroic Spirit is, Caster is not a mantle that fits her. For one, she’s got a sword, and her body is too defined to suggest that she uses magic. But that wouldn’t explain how she knows Okita’s name. Avenger seems content to listen, her lack of an answer stretching into an unbearable silence that Okita once again breaks, both hands now twisted in the fabric by Avenger’s throat, pulling as hard as she can in hopes of getting something out of her.

“What kind of sick game are you playing?” Okita hisses to her, fighting to keep her voice level. She hadn’t noticed when it started fluctuating between her lower register and her normal one, but Avenger has; she gets the feeling that Avenger has noticed everything. “You’d think anyone would be trying to get out of here if they had a spear stuck in their side, but you seem to be happy here. If you weren’t with the enemy, you’d be offering to prove it to us. If you were, you’d be fighting to get out, unless you’re part of some trap, and you can’t do anything with that spear in you. But you didn’t do anything this morning.” Okita’s eyes narrow, and she steps back, hands slipping free from Avenger’s coat. “So what’s keeping you here?” she asks, eyes darting towards the exit. “Some plan that hinges on you being here when the fighting starts?”

“You’re keeping me here, Souji-”

“Don’t call me Souji!” Okita’s blade flashes in the sunlight, a sudden shadow cleaving through the golden square illuminated on the ground. It aims directly at Avenger’s chest, shaking, Okita shaking, her feet unsteady on solid ground. Another heartbeat; the guard of Okita’s sword clatters carelessly against the mouth of the scabbard; Okita’s steps echo up the stairs, and she’s gone before Avenger can think of speaking. She doesn’t want to know, Okita decides. She doesn’t need to sympathize with the enemy- her stomach twists, and her steps falter. Okita leans against the side of the training room, head pressed to the wood, blinking back the heat that’s found its way to the corners of her eyes. No, the truth is that she’s afraid, both of the girl in red and the answers she might have, and of Avenger’s voice ringing in her mind, calling her name with a softness that Okita knows should not be familiar to her.

* * *

Nobunaga winces as Okita retreats back to the surface, rolling her sore shoulders around. They’ll sting, but not nearly as fiercely or as long as the ache that’s seated itself in Nobunaga’s ribs like a second spear, throbbing with every pulse of her heart.

She’d known she was making a mistake from the moment she raised her rifle, but her finger was already on the trigger.

She’d known Okita wouldn’t remember much, but not to this extent.

Nobunaga retreats from the bars, backing up until she can feel the solid stone of the cell wall digging into the small of her back. She lets it take her weight, sliding down until she meets the floor. She’s been left with her thoughts, and they whirl wildly in the sudden stillness, a fleeting train of memories and glimpses of Okita that Nobunaga is only now seeing the reality of. How could she have missed those hints of weariness in Okita’s smiles or the tepidness in her feet? How could Okita continue to fight when there’s nothing to fight for other than herself, no way to exit the battlefield beyond an inglorious death amidst hundreds of others?

Something hot and sticky streaks down the side of Nobunaga’s face, draws her back to the moment. Ah, Nobunaga thinks, that would be the blood splatter from when Okita had stabbed her again with the spear, finally winding its way down Nobunaga’s cheek. Her tongue darts out, expecting iron.

Instead, it comes back with the taste of salt.

* * *

“Why do you know me?”

It takes a week before Okita has the courage to wander into Avenger’s room again, a bag of sugar candy in her hand that weighs twice what it had when she’d found it. She tosses it into the cell, watches Avenger scurry to it and yank several pieces out, popping them into her mouth and biting down with relish.

“Ah, man, I missed those!” Avenger tilts her head up at Okita, crunching thoughtfully on the candies. “What’s this, a bribe?”

“It’s yours.” Okita stations herself close to the cell door, eyes fixated on the wall opposite her, Avenger nothing more than a blur of red and black in her periphery. “I’m just returning it. Answer my question.”

“Hm, grumpy, huh? Well…” Another set of fresh crunches. “We used to be close, that’s all.”

“You’re lying.” Okita shakes her head, folding her arms over her chest. “I was never close to anyone when I was alive. I don’t see how dying would change things.”

“You seem pretty friendly with your current teammates.”

“I know them from my time. I don’t know you.”

“What if you’ve just forgotten about me?”

“If we were close, you wouldn’t be dancing around me for so long!” A hint of Okita’s frustration flares through, and she snaps her head back against the wall, teeth digging into her upper lip. No, Avenger can’t get under her skin again. That’d be playing right into her hands. “So you have to be lying,” Okita says evenly. She dares to let a flicker of her triumph shine through as she glances at Avenger, only to be met with a pair of red eyes staring back, fixated on her. “What?”

“Your scarf,” Avenger says. “You still have it.”

“And?”

“The flower on the end.” Avenger grins and gestures to the clasp of her cape, where a similar symbol is engraved. “That’s mine. I gave you that scarf.”

“You didn’t.” Okita recoils, pulling at the end of her scarf, lifting it up as if the mere hope that Avenger’s words aren’t true will make the distinctive golden flower disappear from both the scarf and her memory. “I’ve always had this, since-”

“Since I gave it to you,” says Avenger. “Which you don’t remember.”

“How would you know what I do or don’t know?”

Avenger’s cocky smile fades, the caped girl uncharacteristically unsure of herself. Okita takes that as her cue to push off from the wall, throwing the ends of her scarf back over her shoulder, heading for the stairs.

“I thought so,” she says, as if those words will settle all the others spoken between them and their mysteries. Avenger doesn’t say anything back, doesn’t call out to her as she goes.

Ryoma is waiting at the top of the stairs, just as Okita had asked him to before she’d gone back down. “So?” he asks, his usual smile replaced by growing concern. “You weren’t down there for long.”

“Send someone else to check on her instead of me from now on,” Okita says, forcing herself to take deep breaths. She won’t appear rattled, not even to Ryoma.

“You know that she always asks about you when someone else goes down there,” Ryoma sighs. “She freaked Izou out by lunging at him last night.”

“Izou gets spooked by anything, Ryoma.” Okita brushes her hand over her face, as if that will somehow ground her. “I’m going back to my room.”

“It’s because she’s right, isn’t she?” Ryoma looks knowingly at Okita, the faint shine of pity in his eyes. “You two do know each other from somewhere.”

“Even if we did, I don’t know her anymore, and I don’t want to!” Okita pushes past him, shrugging off the hand that reaches for her shoulder, rushing back to the solace of her room. Oryou and Ryoma have long since scraped the red paint from the entrance to their room, but Okita still can’t get herself used to Oryou’s attempts at painting frogs in its stead. To her, that door is red, should always be red-

They’d both been here, that much Okita has figured out already. Maybe they’d been teammates once, partners even, but that still wouldn’t explain why Avenger had kept her distance for so long, or why she’d chosen now to return.

Okita feels her way to her futon, rolling into it and pulling the covers high over her head, concealing herself in their darkness. Here, no one can see her pull Avenger’s scarf up to her face and breathe it in, as if a scent long lost to it could stand a chance at jogging her memory.

She doesn’t know what she expected- hints of pine from the forest around them, thawing frost crystals that had caught in the fabric as she’d walked through the falling flurries. But beneath that, the faintest hint of old iron; a hand winding the scarf around her neck and brushing against her cheek; Okita flings the covers off, sitting upright, eyes going to the window.

Nothing’s there, just the grey wall surrounding the house and the accumulating white of the falling snow. The girl in red can’t be outside, because she’s locked away under the training hall- Okita knows this. Still, she keeps her gaze focused on the window until her eyes grow heavy from the grey, watching for a flicker of red, for a memory or that memory incarnate to enter her room and take Okita’s scarf between her hands, or perhaps something more.

* * *

Okita hesitates at the mouth of the stairwell, tracing the outline of the passageway in the wood. Down there is the one Heroic Spirit who can give Okita the answers to her questions, still flitting through her mind, an idle presence in her dreams and wayward thoughts that Okita has to keep steering herself away from. It’s taken her a few weeks to work up the courage to come back here, and now she wavers at the prospect of setting foot on those stairs, of facing Avenger again.

There’s nothing to fear, she tells herself, setting her foot down on the first step. Her sandal scrapes against it; from below comes the sound of rattling iron, and there’s no going back- Avenger knows she’s coming down. She’ll be fine, Okita thinks. If they’d been as close as her fragmented dreams suggest, if the affection in Avenger’s voice had been genuine, there’s nothing to fear from her.

Avenger looks up as Okita approaches, grinning and approaching the bars on her knees. “You’re back,” she laughs, her tone dry. She doubles over, hands pressed to the dirt, shaking slightly as her laughter quivers around the spear point embedded in her side. “It’s been lonely without you for company. No one else would talk to me like you did.”

“I’m not here to talk today,” Okita says, her tone clipped. She’s practiced this in her room a hundred times; ask Avenger only what she wants to know, and don’t let her start ranting on about anything else. “I want you to tell me everything.”

“Everything? We’d be here a long time.” Avenger pulls her legs up beside her, picking at a rock stuck in one of her greaves. “It’s a really long story.”

“No one’s attacking right now.” Okita shifts a hand to the pommel of her katana, holding it steady as she begins to lower herself to the floor. “And I’m in no hurry.”

“What I’m saying is, I could show you instead.”

“Show me how? Are you saying you’ve been a Caster this whole time, after all?”

“No, nothing like that!” Avenger waves her hands in front of herself, laughing. “I mean I can give you the part of me that remembers it.”

“Your Saint Graph?” Okita squints suspiciously. “Kintoki tried taking part of it off you before. It didn’t work.”

“That’s because I wasn’t offering it to him.”

“But you would give it to me.”

“If it’ll save us a few hours of you asking me questions every time I get to something important, yes.” Avenger smiles smugly at Okita, drumming her fingers along the insides of her knees. “You’ll see everything as it happened, and I won’t have to deal with explaining.”

“How is that going to work?” Okita scowls, looking down at her own Saint Graph, at the flickering lines of gold roughly stitched into some recognizable framework, a jumble of runes that Okita suspects are just holding themselves together at this point. “Saint Graphs bits revert to the ownership of the Heroic Spirit who takes them. I’d just overwrite what you have.”

“Not mine. Mine’s stuck as it is.” Avenger shrugs, and this is the only time that Okita can recall her confessing to not being in total control. “I can’t take anything, and anything I add just gets converted to pure magical energy. I haven’t tried giving anyone a part, yet- I think it should stay as it is, since it’s a part of me.”

“So you’ll what, dig out a part of your Saint Graph and hope it shows me everything? Which, by the way, means I’d have to take the spear out of you.”

“Oh, you think it’s a trick.” Avenger sighs and lets herself recline, slowly falling until her back meets the floor. “No, it’s not, I promise. Think about it- that guard of yours, Kintoki? He left me alone after the first time he thought he killed me. If I’d wanted, I could’ve destroyed your base back then. But I don’t.”

“Because I’m here,” Okita chances a guess.

“Exactly.”

“And what if I refuse?”

“Then you don’t find out how I know you.” Avenger closes her eyes, attempting to rest as best as she can with her hands held over her head by the shackles. It’s a good show of nonchalance, Okita has to give her that. “Or you listen to my entire story without interrupting, which I know you can’t do.”

“Fine,” Okita snaps. Whether Avenger is right or not isn’t something she’ll argue, not when Okita is equally as likely leave midway just to escape hearing Avenger’s insufferable voice. “But I’m not getting in there with you. Come to the bars and I’ll get the spear that way.”

Avenger nods and pushes herself up, approaching the bars. Okita reaches through, grabbing the very end of the spear and tugging hard, watching Avenger double over onto her knees as the blade comes free of her body. Avenger lets out a hiss, hands pressed tight against her side, the radiance of her Saint Graph slowly returning to full strength. Slowly, Avenger slides a hand up to her chest, fingers digging into the lines of runes and pulling, working at a piece of her Graph tangled in the layers of crossing fragments layered over it.

What Avenger comes away with is a tiny portion of her Saint Graph, bordering on the size that Izou would scoff at and declare not worth retrieving in the first place. Its edges sputter with weakening light, but the core of it shines stronger than any portion that Okita’s seen before, and she accepts it from Avenger’s outstretched hand, fingers curling carefully around it.

“What part of you is this?” Okita asks. “It’s not one of the ones you’re made out of.”

“A bit of my original self,” Avenger laughs breathlessly. “You remember what I told you to call me, right?”

“Demon Archer.” Okita holds the fragment up to the light, watching the runes dance against the sun. “So if I add this to mine…”

“You’ll likely have a bad night.” Avenger grunts and hauls herself back up to her feet with a shudder. “It happens when you eat too much of a new Saint Graph at one time.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“No, my circumstances are a bit different. I know it can happen, though.”

“And what will I get? Dreams?”

“That’s the most common thing, yes.”

Okita gives Avenger’s fragment another long look, turning it over in her hand. You couldn’t embed an enchantment in your own Saint Graph, right? If you could, some aspiring Caster would’ve figured it out long ago. Her hand closes suddenly around the fragment, and sparks of gold race up her arm, her Saint Graph shuddering violently as it tries to accommodate this new, immutable addition. Okita squeezes her eyes shut, feeling her chest heave- not sickness, but a brief wave of nausea that passes just as suddenly, and when she opens her eyes again, Avenger is watching her, leaning forward expectantly.

“What?”

“Waiting for you to stab me with that thing again.” Avenger nods at the spear in Okita’s other hand. “Unless you’re thinking of being nice to me today.”

“I hope your sense of humor won’t be as bad in whatever memories you have to show me,” Okita huffs, approaching the bars and hefting the spear in both hands. “Stay still and let me try and get the same spot.”

But Avenger does not stay still. She leans forward, sinking her body weight onto the spear, hardly flinching as it tears through weighty flesh, catching just short of re-emerging from her back. Okita freezes, caught off guard not by Avenger’s sudden movement, but by the sensation of lips brushing gently over hers. Avenger’s face is close enough to make out the strange shimmering in her eyes, quickly blinked away. Avenger pulls back before Okita can react, staggering back against the far wall with a thump, where she sinks back down to a sitting position before grinning up at her.

“Well,” she says evenly, as if nothing unusual has happened between them, “Good luck with whatever you see.”

There’s a note of finality in Avenger’s voice that tells Okita she won’t be getting anything more out of her: when Avenger sounds like that, no amount of threatening will get her to yield. Avenger sits with her back straight against the wall, eyes closed, almost as if she’s meditating. More likely, she’s waiting for Okita to leave. Okita lingers, but the expression on Avenger’s face betrays nothing, and Okita is forced to head back up the stairs, the memory of Avenger’s touch replaying endlessly in her mind. It’s all she thinks about, even when she’s sitting atop the gate on watch with Archer, the lazy night breeze reminiscent of Avenger’s lips on hers, and yet even the coming of morning is no relief- there are Avenger’s dreams to contend with, but Okita needs sleep, and this confrontation has been a long time coming.

Okita reaches her futon and lays down, her vision swimming. The ceiling is no longer there, stretching into open sky; the lingering breathlessness after a coughing fit becomes a foreign concept to her, replaced by ever present heat licking away in her chest. A river, a rifle, a scarf, a cave. A journey of days made bearable by each others’ company; a riverbank, and the other half of a once-dreamt conversation; nights spent together in a room heavy with summer heat. A forest- her brother. Oda Nobukatsu, chasing a dream left over 300 years in the past.

(And that would make her-)

The wooden beam that they call their lookout post, a familiar weight in her lap. Wishes murmured to each other under the moonlight, and just as it had been in life, hers is once again concerned with the happiness of someone not herself; rather than a nation, it’s a single person. One dream flows into another: older, thought to be a nightmare. A Saber with golden eyes and an angry swing, out for blood as much as the thrill of fighting.

Okita Souji sits up in her futon, clawing at her neck at a wound that never existed, grasping at air and the fading remains of her dream. There’s little more to see: a shimmering pool of gold is where it ends, the same shade as the eyes of the Saber that had cut down Nobunaga, as herself-

(Could that be why she doesn’t remember?)

The fragment of Demon Archer’s Saint Graph pulses gently, soothingly. The ghost of memories long gone registers what might have been, in the distant past, the rustling of the wind through her hair, or someone’s fingers. Demon Archer’s laughter rings in her ears, her voice close, as if she’d been speaking herself, _ another nightmare? Go back to sleep, Souji. I won’t let anything bother you. _

She can’t go back to sleep. Okita lays waiting, ears straining to hear something else in the silence, another whisper of a voice that’s since grown burdened with weariness, a laugh not yet scarred by resentment.

(But that’s impossible- both of them lost something in the forest that day, even if Okita still isn’t sure what was hers.)

* * *

“That isn’t everything,” is the first thing Okita says to Nobunaga when she returns that night. “There’s more, right? This doesn’t explain where everyone we knew went.”

“Same thing that happens to everyone else who fights.” Nobunaga is laying as flat on the floor as she can make herself, arms sticking straight up, wrists drooping from the cuffs. “They lost too much of themselves and died. You aren’t missing much.”

“Where’s the rest?”

“I can’t show you those as easily.” Nobunaga motions to herself, a wayward flicking of her fingers. “You saw what my Saint Graph looks like. It was hard enough getting that Archer part out of me, and that’s just a single part.”

“Why, what else were you?”

“Berserker,” Nobunaga says. “But it’s all caught up with the other parts of me by now. There’s no way I could get enough of it loose to give it to you, even if you took this spear out and gave me a few days.”

“How did you have multiple classes?” Okita asks, pacing in front of the cell. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

“I ate too much Saint Graph too quickly. Call it a side effect of indigestion.”

Okita snorts with laughter in spite of herself, claps a hand over her mouth. She knows full well why something like that is funny to her now; the reason is right next to her, playing with the chains dangling from the wall, waiting for Okita’s next question.

“And the Archer bit, then?”

“The only part of me that survived being made a Berserker,” Nobunaga says, uncharacteristically somber.

“You kept it that way,” Okita murmurs, stopping squarely in front of Nobunaga. “Or you wanted to keep it so badly that it survived being made into another class.”

“Things get hazy the more you mess with Saint Graphs,” Nobunaga says, bobbing her head in agreement.

“And that’s why you couldn’t hold on to everything.” There are gaps in even Nobunaga’s memories, a blur where their other teammates should’ve been.

“No. Just what mattered.”

“That last memory. That was me, wasn’t it?” Okita’s fingers curl around her scarf, and she carefully keeps herself from looking at Nobunaga. “That enemy Saber you fought.”

“Yeah,” Nobunaga sighs heavily. “It was.”

“I used to have dreams about that,” whispers Okita. “I’d dream that I was attacking my teammates. I didn’t think it was actually- why did I do it?”

“The other team did something to you.”

Her mind goes to the pool of gold, to it flickering in her eyes as she’d cut through Nobunaga. “Like an enchantment?”

“Yeah.”

“And you-” Okita feels her throat getting tight, but there’s none of the taste of blood she’s expecting. “You went over to your brother’s side to get me back, didn’t you?” This time, Nobunaga doesn’t respond. “You did, to get me put back to normal, but then… why don’t I remember you? Or anyone from our time?”

“Something must’ve happened to your Saint Graph,” Nobunaga replies, her voice oddly thick.

“This whole time, I’ve felt like there was something missing,” Okita mumbles, her gaze fixed on the floor. “Not just because I couldn’t remember- like there was something else to it, too.”

“Well, I promise you I don’t have any of it.” Nobunaga laughs, high and far too long.

“You know what I mean,” Okita says over Nobunaga’s subsiding giggles. “All this time, I was missing you, wasn’t I?”

The last of Nobunaga’s laughter tapers off, and they’re left in silence: not the companionable kind from Okita’s dreams, but the kind that she wants to desperately break, if only so she doesn’t have to keep enduring it.

“Do you want the Saint Graph you gave me back?” Okita asks, turning to face the cell. “Unless you think I’ll forget if you take it back.”

Nobunaga shakes her head, turning onto her side so her back faces the bars. “Keep it,” she says. “It belongs to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean you need it more than I do.” A brash note has returned to Nobunaga’s voice, enough that Okita knows she’s grinning. Maybe in the past, she would’ve known Nobunaga well enough to tell whether she’s faking it or not. “Your Saint Graph looks chewed up.”

“This, coming from someone who’s made up of eleven of them slapped together?” Okita sighs. Their banter shouldn’t be putting her at ease- Nobunaga’s their prisoner, and Okita is mindful of that- but she still catches her shoulders slumping and a weary smile working its way across her face. “Fine. I’ll keep it, Nobu.”

And like that, the silence is back, accompanied by a crystalline stillness so brittle that even the slightest movement would shatter the moment. Nobunaga tenses; Okita’s hands squeeze so tightly that her nails dig into her palms. She hadn’t meant to call Nobunaga that; it had just slipped out.

Then Nobunaga, being Nobunaga, bursts into loud, raucous laughter. “Hey,” she manages to gasp between spurts of giggles, “Hey, if you’re gonna start calling me Nobu now, can I call you Souji again?”

“No!” Okita snaps, instinctively going on the defensive. A moment later, she relents- “I guess you can call me Okita,” she says.

“Alright, Okita.” Nobunaga rolls back over, grinning up wistfully at her. It’s not the same as hearing _ Souji _enunciated with such care, but Okita’s heart still pounds wildly in her ears, and she’s all too aware of the flush spreading across her cheeks. A hastily blurted farewell, and she’s dashing up the stairs two at a time, Nobunaga’s unrestrained laughter echoing behind her as she breaches the surface, taking large gulps of the cool air and feeling its sting on her face. The fragment of Nobunaga’s Saint Graph catches her eye as she leans against the wall for support, listening to Nobunaga’s voice fade. It flickers happily under the moonlight, and Okita finds herself smiling along with it, wondering if maybe this had been Nobunaga’s plan all along.

* * *

The attack comes after weeks of solo incursions, a full assault by all six Heroic Spirits on the enemy team, overwhelming Kintoki at the gates and taking out Archer just as he sounds the alarm. As Okita scrambles out into the burning night, she chastises herself for not recognizing what those seemingly half-hearted attempts at infiltrating their base were: scouting missions to detect the limit at which the oni could be detected.

It takes more than mere oni to bring down a dragon, but the same can’t be said of her human counterpart. The assassin oni gets her claws in Ryoma half an hour into the fighting, and Oryou goes with him, her presence sustained only by Ryoma’s being on the battlefield. To her credit, she snaps up both Assassin and the dragon Berserker before she dies, rending them to shreds in a display of teeth and a spray of golden mist.

Raikou follows in her wake, riding her momentum. She seizes Kintoki’s axe from where it fell and strikes their Archer down with it, turns her own katana on the oni Saber, matching her blow for blow. That leaves Izou and Okita facing down the remaining Saber and Berserker, a stalemate that seems to have no end. Izou is too quick to be caught, but not fast enough to land a killing blow on Berserker; Okita and her counterpart dance around each other, shadows in the trees and darting around the crackling fire, blades barely meeting, the majority of their fight a game of footwork and spotting the other through the dimly lit dark.

Kintoki and Archer come back about an hour or two into the fight- that’s expected. After all, this is where they lay their heads. What they don’t expect is for the slain oni and dragon to leap back up onto the roofs, spewing poison and fire down into the confines of the walls, waves of rolling flames lashing out indiscriminately.

They were in the forest, Okita realizes, arms lifted in a futile attempt to shield her face. The flames sear away the edges of her haori, jump up her body. She can’t hear herself for the roaring of the fire around her and Izou’s distant howls; she can’t see who it is that drives their hand into her chest, nor tell if they’re after her Saint Graph, or her still-beating heart.

Mercifully, she’s dead before she has to find out.

* * *

The ceiling shudders again, and Nobunaga brushes more dirt from the top of her head, gazing up at the flickering orange masking her view of the outside world. The wood covering the entrance to the basement is likely long since burned away, and yet no one has come for her yet: Nobunaga suspects they’re all caught up fighting one another. She can feel magical energy pulsing around her, thick like smoke in the air, flying between combatants and from the torn Saint Graphs of the defeated.

They’ve been at this for hours now, Nobunaga thinks. Usually a clear victor would have emerged by now, but something is keeping them locked in a stalemate: that could only mean one thing, a refusal of either side to stay dead long enough for one group to gain the advantage. Nobunaga wishes she’d thought of that back in her time, but knows Ruler would never have committed to it, that she’d never have been able to devote herself to it after taking Okita at her side.

Something scrapes the stone at the top of the stairway; staggering footfalls announce a presence, heading for Nobunaga. At last, her hiding place has been found. Nobunaga strains at the irons holding her, jumps in a vain attempt to get the shaft of the spear into her hands, where she’ll be able to rip it out of herself.

But it’s not the enemy that comes shambling down the stairs, but Okita, or someone who looks exactly like her. Nobunaga doesn’t recognize her at first: her blue haori is stained through in parts with a vibrant red that paints the side of her head and the lower half of her face, and her Saint Graph sparks from the multitude of truncated lines, chunks of it ripped out haphazardly, hardly anything left holding her together. Okita glances at Nobunaga with dazed, half-lidded eyes, and fumbles with the lock for several seconds before finally managing to wrench it open.

“Ryoma says to let you out,” she says, her voice hardly a whisper and more a passing breath that bubbles through the blood on her lips. Her hands wrap around the spear and pull, tug, her feet struggling for purchase in the stone, the spearhead twisting from side to side until Okita manages to free it from Nobunaga’s body, staggering back against the bars as it comes loose.

“What’s going on up there?” Nobunaga’s eyes glint in the firelight leaking in through the window, and a quick jerk of her wrists breaks the metal holding her to the wall. The shackles themselves stay tight around her wrists, but the shattered chain sinks down into a coil at her feet, which Nobunaga steps over as she grips Okita by the shoulders, holding her up. “Okita, tell me what’s happening!”

“He said to either run as far as you can from here if you don’t want to be involved, or fight like your life depends on it,” Okita continues, as if repeating a mantra. “And that the enemy rested nearby.”

“Yeah, I figured that out already,” Nobunaga mutters grimly. Okita has no reply for her- she sags against Nobunaga’s body, unaware that this small girl is all that stands between her and the cold embrace of the floor, the ringing of clanging metal and snapping fire filtering down from above. “Alright,” she says, the sound of her voice sends a chilling cold through Okita’s chest.

Nobunaga’s arms encircle her, lower her gently to the ground, linger for a moment. “Rest for a bit, Okita,” Nobunaga tells her. She steps out of the cell, grabbing her katana from the far wall and calling a rifle to her hand, which materializes in a burst of gold. “I’ll finish this for you.”

“No-” Okita stammers, tries to claw her way back to her feet with the bars as her support. “I can still fight-”

Her chest heaves, and she sprinkles the stones beneath her with red. It’s quickly seeped up into the hungry rock, and Nobunaga casts a backwards glance at her from where she stands at the base of the stairs, rifle hefted over one shoulder and the metal of her drawn katana reflecting the hatred burning in Nobunaga’s eyes. “I said rest,” she murmurs, her tone nothing but gentle. That isn’t right, Okita thinks; she should be chastised for leaving the field, should be ashamed that she can’t find the strength to stand.

Okita tries to speak, but even that is beyond her. She lays on the floor, chest aching, blood seeping from between her lips and pooling beneath her chin, listening to the battle rage outside. Surely enough, Nobunaga has joined it: the crack of rifle fire becomes the sound she hears the most, and occasionally, the ringing of metal meeting metal. From afar, a mighty groaning, the sound of timbers giving way and crashing to the ground. Amidst all this, the flames continue to build and burn, their heat even reaching down into the cool depths of the room where Okita lays, waiting for the final death to find her, be it from the weakness in her chest or the enemy descending the stairs to finish off their wounded prey.

It’s not the enemy that comes for her first, but her own exhaustion. Okita knows she blacks out at least once, and when her eyes open again, nothing’s changed. Her chest still throbs with pain enough to render her motionless; the fighting above, though quieter, is still a symphony of gunshots and raging fire.

Okita doesn’t register when it all goes still. It could have been hours; it could have been days. Maybe this isn’t real at all, and she’s simply dreamed it all up; maybe she’s really laying with her cheek in the mud at Toba-Fushimi, dreaming of a far from ideal future, but one where she’s at least able to keep fighting.

A pair of gold-covered boots stop in front of her, and someone kneels at her side. Careful hands turn Okita over, fragments of gleaming light held in a trembling fist, pressed to Okita’s body with measured tenderness. Nobunaga looms over her, her face just like the rest of her body, covered in layers of overlapping black and red. It contorts with worry, lips moving to form sounds that Okita can’t make sense of, and bits of ash and blood and dust flake off her to drift like dirtied snow to sink into the pools Okita’s left behind.

“Are you feeling better?” Nobunaga is saying. “Hey, Okita, say something to me. Or- or do something.”

This doesn’t feel right. Nobunaga’s voice has never sounded this strained, not even when she spoke about her brother, or when she’d told Okita what it was like to die at Honnouji. Nobunaga grunts, arms wrapping around Okita again, one under her shoulders and the other under her knees, cradling Okita to her chest. Okita barely fits against the smaller girl’s stature, but that doesn’t stop Nobunaga from carrying her back up the stairs, one step at a time, trying her best not to rattle Okita any more than necessary.

They emerge under a dark cloud so large that it’s grown to block out not just the moon, but the very night itself. Thin layers of white ash cover that which isn’t still being eaten away by flames. The other Heroic Spirits who still stand- Ryoma, Kintoki, Raikou- are at work putting them out, shoveling dirt onto them, while Oryou looks over them all in dragon form, smothering the dying embers with stomps of her forelimbs.

Nobunaga carries Okita past them without a sound, and they in turn pay her no mind.

Nobunaga takes her to the courtyard, where somehow, their rooms are still standing. They’re not quite intact, but not burned to nothing, either: Okita’s room, being in the middle, is lucky to get away with some singed wood and a fallen rafter, and little else.

“Caster laid her enchantments heavy over this place when she made it,” Nobunaga says, seeing the confusion in Okita’s eyes. Her knees hit the ground by Okita’s futon, and Okita is laid carefully atop it, face-up, so the blood on her front doesn’t seep into the fabrics. “She knew how important it was to have a place to stay.”

“Okita?” Ryoma calls to her from beyond the doorway. His shadow fills it a moment later, and Ryoma pauses in surprise. “Oh, Avenger, you’re here, too?”

“I’ll take care of her,” Nobunaga tells him. Ryoma opens his mouth, starts to protest, and Nobunaga whirls around with a suddenness that makes Okita’s head spin. Okita can’t see the look on Nobunaga’s face, but something shifts behind Ryoma’s eyes, and he gives her a curt nod.

“Alright. Thank you for your help, Avenger.”

“It wasn’t for you,” is all that Nobunaga says. She waits until Ryoma is gone to shut the door, and then she’s back at Okita’s side, sitting there, watching. The air between them grows thick with the scent of iron- that had always been a part of being near Nobunaga, but this is worse, choking what little air Okita has from her throat, bringing up more of its bitter taste. She coughs into her hands, heaves for air, gestures at Nobunaga.

“Nobu,” she gasps, fingers brushing against her knee. “Your coat…”

Nobunaga looks down at herself, at the front of her uniform dyed a darker shade than the rest, and her eyes shine with understanding. A few quick movements, and she’s stripped it off, throwing it into the corner of the room where Okita won’t have to breathe in its stench. Okita wrests her gaze away, the sharp movement drawing a grunt of pain from her. “Don’t you have anything else to wear?”

“I can’t call a new one.” For once, Nobunaga sounds drained. With no one but Okita to see, she slouches by the futon, shoulders drooped and eyes threatening to slide shut. “I’m about out of energy, myself.”

“Here.” Okita’s fingers pluck at the edges of her haori. She manages to roll onto her side, shifting her shoulders back for Nobunaga to pull it off her, saying, “You can wear it, as long as you don’t go outside with it. Don’t make it bloody, either. Bloodier.”

“Ah, I won’t.” A hand touches the small of Okita’s back, and a moment later, she feels the haori leave her shoulders, exposing them to the cool air. It’s little relief, but it’s relief all the same. It doesn’t help her breathe any easier, though, and Okita’s forced to let herself fall onto her back, looking up at Nobunaga once again.

The haori is a bit too big for Nobunaga, but it covers her up well enough, and Nobunaga looks content to wear it. With no cords to keep it shut, it spreads around Nobunaga’s middle, baring her torso with its multitude of scars, the newest of which stands out from the rest, an angry and healing red verging on pink. Before Okita can stop herself, she’s reaching for them, for the ones she doesn’t ever remember seeing on Nobunaga’s body, that she can’t even begin to recognize the origins of. Her fingers brush the length of the one against her side- at least she knows this one; she’d dealt it herself.

“Oh?” Nobunaga laughs, and there’s that fondness again, in her eyes, her smile. “Looking at that, hm? Hey, do you know if your Rider’s dragon has a matching scar like this?”

“I don’t…” Okita shakes her head, and even that simple act saps her of what little strength she’s managed to regain. Nobunaga’s smile tapers, and her eyes soften, hands reaching to smooth the covers of the futon and play with Okita’s hair.

“Rest,” Nobunaga tells her. “Your Saint Graph needs time to stabilize.”

“Nobu?” Okita’s eyes have shut, no longer able to resist the pull of her weariness, but her fingers twitch as if she would reach out, searching for Nobunaga. “Will you leave?”

“I’ll stay in this place.” It’s the best answer Nobunaga can give her, and one that seems to satisfy Okita. Her breaths level out, still raspy and strained, but no longer is it a struggle for her to simply breathe. She’ll live- Nobunaga lets out the sigh she’s held since she’d stepped back into the basement- Okita will continue to survive, and that’s all that matters.

This is no battle that they’ve weathered, but a slaughter, one Okita wasn’t meant to survive, one Nobunaga wasn’t meant to partake in. The oni hadn’t expected a seventh Heroic Spirit, one that refused to stay down when killed, one whose Saint Graph couldn’t be plundered. Once Nobunaga had started mowing them down for the fourth time, they’d cut their losses and ran, and the only thing that had stopped her from chasing them back into the forest and finding the place they’d slept was the thought of Okita, her strength flagging with each passing moment, her Saint Graph torn to a point where even Nobunaga wasn’t sure if it could be repaired.

It hadn’t been the onis’ faces that she’d seen when she’d pulled the trigger on them. Nobunaga still isn’t sure who or what she saw, only that in spite of the fires she’d called on and fed, she had never once stopped feeling cold. She’d taken as much of the onis’ Saint Graphs as she could, carved them out with her katana and kept them wound tight around her sleeves as she fought, almost like trophies to intimidate the damned, an action to be expected of the Demon Archer.

But it was Avenger who had coiled golden chains of magical energy around her arms, and Avenger who took the battlefield tonight. It was Avenger who’d returned to Okita in the basement, and for a moment, mistaken damp earth for bloodied stone and the red under Okita’s head for something of her own making.

Saving her hadn’t changed that, would never change that.

Nobunaga slowly shrugs off Okita’s haori, folding it carefully and laying it by her pillow. The pins and needles in her legs recede as she stumbles towards her coat, pulling it over herself, feeling it settle over her, heavy with blood. She’ll clean it tomorrow, once her energy has had a chance to come back, but for now, it’s time to return herself to the basement. As she leaves Okita’s room, Nobunaga does not allow herself to look back. She tells herself she doesn’t need to, because she’s not leaving Okita for good; she’ll have another chance to see her again. It’s that, or otherwise admit to herself the true reason she finds herself descending the stairs and hiding behind bars of iron, that someone who’s hurt Okita so much has no right to stay by her side, not until she’s atoned, and nothing Nobunaga could do would ever begin to accomplish that.

* * *

Ryoma descends into the basement before the sun has risen, not even a hint of light catching off the tips of the western mountains. His dragon, human again, floats a wary circle around him, eyeing the subdued Avenger sitting cross-legged in her unlocked cell. Nobunaga had melted the shackles off her wrists the evening before, and now she watches Oryou and Ryoma approach with a measured expression, her curiosity betrayed only by a faint flickering of her eyes.

“We didn’t get the opportunity to say it before, but I suppose thanks are warranted,” Ryoma begins, planting the end of his sheathed sword into the ground. “So, thank you for helping us last night.”

“You know what I have to say about that.”

“Yes.” The corners of Ryoma’s mouth quirk upwards. “I suppose it would have something to do with Saber.”

“But that’s not why you’re here,” Nobunaga says, squinting shrewdly at him. “If you’re going to try and recruit me, the answer’s no. I’m done with fighting.”

“No, that’s not it either,” Ryoma laughs. “I came to tell you that we- my team and I- are leaving.”

“The base, or-” Nobunaga pauses, briefly closing her eyes. The pulse of the Grail has been harder for her to feel since that day she submerged herself in it, but she can tell even through her dulled connection that it’s fading, and quickly. “It’s moving.” Well, that would make sense. So much magical energy had been thrown around during the fighting that it’s no wonder that the Grail is sated now, and ready to change battlegrounds.

“Yes. We’re also in no condition to keep you with us any longer, seeing as we’ll be mobile. Although, after your display last night, I’m inclined to think you were just letting us keep you down here.”

“Hey, no hard feelings. It all worked out in the end.” Nobunaga shrugs, gets to her feet. “I didn’t think you’d be sticking around here with this place all burnt up, anyway.”

“Well, that’s the thing.” Ryoma shifts his weight from one foot to the other, glancing towards the ceiling. “Not all of us are going.”

“Saber,” Nobunaga says immediately, and Ryoma nods. “You can’t carry her?”

“Oryou can’t handle transformations for long periods of time without the Grail around to keep feeding me,” Ryoma explains. “She’d have to make the walk with the rest of us, and she’s in no condition to.”

“And carrying her by yourselves slows you down, meaning you’ll be in more danger when the others get to the new location first and establish themselves,” Nobunaga finishes for him. “So you’re leaving her here with me. How do you know I won’t decide to leave and go finish up my oni hunting, too?”

“Did I suggest anything like that?” Ryoma asks with a smile. “Last night, when you came out of the basement alone, I thought you’d done something to Saber, actually. Then I saw you fight. Truly, you’re a Heroic Spirit that lives up to the title of Avenger.”

“What’s that mean, Rider?” Nobunaga’s eyes dart to him, and Oryou hovers above the space between them, teeth bared, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. She sees what Ryoma doesn’t, the sudden twitch of Nobunaga’s hand, as if to call a rifle or draw her sword.

“You do know that Saber doesn’t keep everything to herself, right? I know you and her have history, and that you care about Saber’s condition. That’s why I’m telling you all this. What you decide to do is up to you. I don’t think any of us could stop you if we wanted to.” Ryoma’s laughter slowly fades, and he reaches up, toying with the brim of his hat. “I’ve already spoken to Saber about this. She said she’ll catch up with us as soon as she’s able to move. How likely is that, Avenger?”

“You’ve seen her Saint Graph, haven’t you?” Ryoma nods, and Nobunaga looks away, staring at the wall. “She won’t have the Grail to sustain her magical energy any longer. You’ve seen how torn up she is.”

“Then we won’t expect her.” Ryoma’s tone rings heavy with resignation, and a gentle pat to Oryou’s back has her floating back down to the ground, where he can drape an arm over her shoulder and fiddle with the ends of her hair. “I already told everyone to say their goodbyes. We’ll be going once everyone’s done.”

“Moving on just like that, huh?” Nobunaga shakes her head. “No, I can’t say that’s the wrong choice. I’d be doing the same in your position.”

“Somehow, having you agree with me doesn’t make me feel any better.” That smile is back, careful, measured. Ryoma and Oryou head back towards the stairs, Ryoma throwing a final wave over his shoulder. “Goodbye, Avenger. Take care of Saber for us.”

“I will.” Nobunaga listens to the pair of them retreat, to the distant murmurs of voices above, waiting for them to leave. She could go and scare their Assassin one more time, but the novelty of that wore off long ago. Inspiring fear is nothing new to Nobunaga, and she’d had her fill of it the night before. She can still feel her grimace etched into the soreness of her cheeks, a scowl spread across lips coated with the taste of copper. Once an oni has taken a look at you and decided to flee, there isn’t much more to aspire for after that.

Nobunaga emerges from the cell as light breaks over the hills, golden motes of light wafting over the leftover remains of their previous battle. Many buildings are nothing but ash and charred stumps; the wall is scorched through, and the gate where the lookouts sat on their watch is nothing but a single log about as tall as Nobunaga, brittle charcoal edges jutting up into the air. She walks past all of it, not caring to stop and reminisce. Any fond memories she might have had in this place are either gone with her many deaths, or housed in the Archer Graph given to Okita. All Nobunaga cares about is the other Heroic Spirit still lingering here, her coughing audible even from the other end of the courtyard.

Okita is lying down on her futon when Nobunaga walks in, a damp sleeve pressed to her lips. She doesn’t look at Nobunaga, might not even have registered her presence until Nobunaga’s hand is under hers, pushing it away, using her coat to wipe away the blood. When Okita turns her eyes upon her, Nobunaga just shrugs. “I can call a new one any time,” she says.

“Are they gone?”

“Yeah. Here, have a drink.” Nobunaga reaches for the half-full bucket kept by Okita’s futon- one of her teammates must’ve brought it before they left. Okita can’t lift it, but manages a few meager sips before she’s shaking again, hacking up equal parts water in blood, shivering against the hand that Nobunaga rubs against her back.

When it’s passed, Okita stares at Nobunaga. She almost wants to ask what Okita sees, whether she’s seeing Nobunaga herself, or trying to glimpse the Avenger from the night before that her teammates must have told her about, the one whose coat was so drenched in blood that it had dripped and smoked in the fire.

Instead, Okita says something so different from what Nobunaga was expecting that it catches her completely off guard. “Nobu? You can see my Saint Graph, right?” she asks. Nobunaga nods, sees Okita squeezes her eyes shut, gathering her strength to give voice to her next question. “How much of it is still me?”

“The Saint Graphs you take off the other Heroic Spirits acclimate to you,” Nobunaga says. “All of them become a part of you, eventually.”

“I mean-” Another cough rumbles deep in her chest, emerging as a faint gasp. “The Saint Graph I started out with. How much of it is left?”

Nobunaga hesitates, frowns. Her eyes rake over the hints of gold rising to the surface of Okita’s form, hardly shimmering, in some places so dark that the color borders on grey. The portions that Nobunaga had given her weren’t enough. Entire sections of her Saint Graph wobble on the verge of destabilization, lacking the magical energy to keep them intact, and even more are just dead ends of light, the rest torn out and missing. But beneath all that, under the feeble attempts of Okita’s Saint Graph to repair itself with the pieces taken from others and her own tattered fragments shoved together, it’s still Okita.

“Enough,” Nobunaga says, running a hand over Okita’s arm. The tiny portion of her Archer Graph shines from Okita’s chest, less vibrant than before, but still strong.

“Is that the truth?”

“Hey, I’ve known you since you got here.” Nobunaga adjusts her legs under her, reaching down to run her fingers through Okita’s hair. “I’ve looked at your Saint Graph enough times to memorize every part of it. I know which parts are you, and it’s you.”

“Will you be going with the others?” The same note that had been in Ryoma’s voice echoes in Okita’s, along with a tremor of fear. This is Okita’s legend, her very essence; Okita Souji is too sick to fight, and so she’s left to lie in the place where she fell until her sickness takes her. What the legend can’t answer, though, is the question of what would happen if it’s impossible for Okita to die.

“No. I’m staying.” Nobunaga moves some stray hairs from Okita’s forehead, and her fingers come away damp with sweat. She’s the one with the connection to fire, but Okita is the one burning up beneath her, and the only relief Nobunaga can offer is the light touch of her hand and whatever comfort her company provides. “I left all this fighting behind a long time ago.”

“You were fine fighting last night.”

“That’s because they would’ve killed me, too.”

“I’m glad they didn’t.” Okita turns her head to the side, leveling her gaze with Nobunaga’s, cheek sinking into the pillow. “You’re all I’ve got, Nobu.”

“Hey, don’t say something like that. What about your teammates?”

Okita pauses, both to take a breath and to stare at Nobunaga through lidded eyes. Such a protest is unlike her, but what it might mean is something she isn’t sure about. All she can do is shake her head and say, “They left. It’s just you.”

Nobunaga starts to say something, but Okita’s fingers scrape the back of her hand, and her voice dies before it can even touch her lips. “You know what they called me in my time, right?” she asks. “I was the genius swordsman of the Shinsengumi, but I was also a manslayer. Do you know what that meant for me?”

Okita’s eyes stare fervently up at Nobunaga, awaiting an answer. She’s serious, Nobunaga realizes, more so than ever. She can’t ever remember seeing Okita like this, and so she lets her tone grow soft, saying, “I can’t say I do.”

“I learned of you as the Demon King of the Sengoku era. A warlord known for her conquest, her lovers, her carnage. Can you guess what history has made of me?” Okita lets another shiver pass along her throat, bubbling up into Nobunaga’s sleeve. “You’re remembered for so much. I’m someone who excelled at killing people, only to die an early death. It’s what makes me.” Okita’s fingers wind between Nobunaga’s, pulling her hand to her chest, where Nobunaga can feel something fluttering- Okita’s breath, or Okita’s heart. “Rider, Assassin, the others- we were comrades on the same battlefield. Now I can’t fight, but you’re still here. You said you were staying.” Okita smiles, and it feels like something hot has ripped through Nobunaga’s very essence, cutting her to the core. “So, you’re all I have left.”

To this, Nobunaga has no response. She simply squeezes Okita’s hand, lets her cling to it through the fits of coughing, strokes her hair and hums into the silences, her eyes never once leaving Okita’s. Okita doesn’t let go, even when exhaustion takes over and her eyes slide shut, drifting off to sleep with Nobunaga as her anchor.

Nobunaga will not know that Okita’s sleep, for once, is dreamless. All she knows is the warmth of Okita’s hand and a peaceful look on her face that leaves Nobunaga wondering if Okita had ever found similar rest when she was still alive. Whether she had or not, they’ve found it here in the most unexpected of places, in the ruins of a battlefield in the middle of nowhere, fighting a meaningless war.

If only it had been this sort of happiness that Okita had wished for.

* * *

Okita’s tongue swipes over her cracked lips. Nobunaga lifts the bucket up to her mouth, and the wooden rim comes away dark. Okita shudders, watches her Saint Graph tremble with each cough, fading lights reflected in her eyes. Even the part that Nobunaga had given her is waning, a little less distinct each day. She sees its decline reflected in the Nobunaga that sits over her, rising only to retrieve more water from the well or to help Okita outside to the wooden walkways, where they sit and admire the new greenery taking hold in the hills around them. In the moments when Nobunaga is out of her sight, she wonders if it’s still an Avenger she’s looking at, or an Archer, or if it doesn’t matter anymore.

(Okita refuses to think it’s the latter, clinging to her designation of Saber, her sword as common a presence at her bedside as Nobunaga.)

When Okita is well enough, they talk: never about their battles; usually, whatever is on Nobunaga’s mind that day. She rests her head against Nobunaga’s chest and listens to the rumble of her voice going on about tea ceremonies and her retainers. When Okita has the strength, she lends herself to the conversation, telling her about all the new sweets she’ll have to try and daring her (someday, don’t think about the somehow) to eat more dango than Okita can.

But Nobunaga was a warlord, and Okita was a samurai, and their talk always winds back to the same places: victories, losses, battles, death.

It’s Okita, on one of her good days, who suggests they take up shogi to pass the time. They won’t need a formal board; they won’t be able to take it with them when they leave, so Nobunaga hews a grid out of the frost-hardened snow, and the stones from the garden are painted with blood and laid in their arrays.

Nobunaga has command experience, so it’s only natural for her to win. Perhaps the inevitability of it is why she doesn’t gloat, only resetting the board and stealing a kiss from Okita when she moves to take back her captured pieces.

Okita earns her first win after a week. She practically dives across the board, scattering stones across the courtyard, only to be met by Nobunaga’s palm against chin and two fingers poking something between her lips. “Nobu!” she protests, sputtering around the studded shape of Nobunaga’s sugar candy. “What’s that for?”

“You wanna kiss me?” Nobunaga smirks, her hand darting into her pocket to retrieve a piece of candy for herself. Okita sees the mouth of the bag protrude from the lining of Nobunaga’s coat, its contents clicking as Nobunaga extracts one and pops it into her mouth. “You gotta get through all this first.”

“Then why do you get to kiss me?”

“You don’t have any dango to offer me, do you?”

“That’s totally unfair!”

“Maybe in between sticking men with swords, you should’ve learned to stick dough balls with skewers.”

“How many of those do you have?” Okita huffs, eyeing Nobunaga’s coat suspiciously.

“Enough! At the rate you’re winning, maybe you’ll be done with it in a year.”

“Eat it faster!”

Okita makes a swipe for the bag, overextends. She topples onto Nobunaga, both of them sprawling out onto the cold dirt, where the tips of the spring grass have only just begun to show their heads.

“Okita,” Nobunaga says, and there’s something different in its sound. What would be a reverent whisper is marred by a sentiment Okita knows well, but never knew Nobunaga to ever show: regret.

“Nobu?” Okita echoes, only to hold back a shiver, her arms quaking against Nobunaga’s chest. Nobunaga sits up, pulling Okita against her, casting her eyes up at the steady purpling sky.

“Oh, is it that time already?” Nobunaga shifts her grip, and Okita dutifully wraps her arms around Nobunaga’s neck, letting herself be carried. “Be proud of yourself, Okita. You gave me such a match that I lost track of time!”

“Look forward to it tomorrow,” Okita shoots back before a cough wracks her body. She rests her head against Nobunaga’s arm, relaxing as she’s lowered back onto her futon. Nobunaga’s thumb trails over her chin, chasing away a smear of red, and Okita’s head lolls to the side, bringing her into full view. “Are you going to sleep too?” Okita asks, and is answered by the sensation of Nobunaga’s fingers moving slowly through her hair.

“I rest when I need to,” Nobunaga says with a smile, and Okita recognizes it as the same indulgent one that Nobunaga gives to her whenever she asks where Nobunaga’s gone on those days when Okita is laid up in her futon. “It’s not like I don’t have plenty of time for it.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sleep.” Okita’s hands twitch at her sides, instinctively reaching for her chest as another cough rips through it, speckling her lips with red.

“Don’t talk so much,” sighs Nobunaga. “Not when you’re coughing like this.” Okita nods reluctantly, acquiescing defeat. Nobunaga settles herself into place, legs pulled up under her, idly supporting herself with her other arm. “Do you need anything?”

“Rest with me?” One of Okita’s hands flips up a corner of the futon, and she slides herself over, leaving enough space for Nobunaga to squeeze in. “It’s going to be cold tonight.”

“Inviting me into your bed, Okita?”

“Are you going to make that joke every time we do this?” Okita presses herself against Nobunaga’s side as she shrugs off her cape and slips beneath the covers, arms winding around Okita’s shoulders. Tonight, Nobunaga’s embrace feels lighter, restrained. Okita tugs on her wrist, urging her closer until their shoulders knock together. “Don’t handle me like I’m so fragile, Nobu,” she murmurs. “You know I can handle worse.”

Nobunaga doesn’t reply, but her arms tighten around Okita’s body, one hand cradling the back of her head as she settles it on Nobunaga’s chest. Okita drapes an arm over her stomach, shifting to a more comfortable position before sinking down into Nobunaga.

“Do you think they’ve found the new place by now?” she asks, her speech heavy like her eyelids. “It’s never gone too far away…”

“The Grail?” Nobunaga sounds distant even though she’s right under Okita, the puffs of her breath tickling the top of her head. Okita tries to open her eyes, glance at Nobunaga, but the warmth of the futon and Nobunaga’s body is already lulling her to sleep. “Yeah, I bet they have.”

“And we’ll go…”

“As soon as you’re better,” Nobunaga finishes. Her lips brush the crown of her forehead, barely felt by Okita, losing ground quickly in her struggle to stay awake. Nobunaga watches the edges of her mouth lift into the faint outline of a smile, and then Okita is out, her breaths leveling into a steady rhythm.

Nobunaga watches her doze off, lifting the hand around Okita’s shoulder to play with the ends of her hair. She looks so peaceful, Nobunaga thinks, and hopeful. She doesn’t want to be the one who has to tell Okita the truth; she’d rather Okita figure it out on her own, but then what? Nobunaga has never seen a Heroic Spirit die of a lack of magical energy, doesn’t know how fast or slow it would kill. Okita is in no shape to travel or be moved for long distances, and so all she and Nobunaga can do is wait. What was it that Nobunaga had always said- a man’s life is but fifty years? Okita had lived for hardly half of that, and even this second chance at living is filled with the same fighting and sickness that had occupied Okita before. The only relief from it might lay in Okita’s dreams; Nobunaga hopes it does, that her sleep is filled with anything other than iron and blood.

Okita stirs in Nobunaga’s arms, a disgruntled shifting of her shoulders. Nobunaga’s hand settles on her head, soothing, short strokes of her hand returning Okita to her motionless state. She’ll stay like this all night, keeping watch over Okita and her dreams, rubbing her back to fend off the stirrings in her chest. When the sun rises, bathing them both in orange and gold, Okita will wake to a warmth of a smile and arms wrapped around her, a comfort she had never found in life. It’s the least Nobunaga can do, and simultaneously, not enough.

* * *

Okita doesn’t get to take another one of Nobunaga’s candies. Snow gives way to rain the next morning, and their shogi board is washed away, lost under a solid inch of water. Okita stays in her room while Nobunaga runs around in the forest, grabbing enough grass to weave a patch for the hole in the ceiling that they’d never gotten around to fixing.

In the hours between the downpours, Okita recovers enough to sit up, and Nobunaga is always there to offer her a shoulder to lean on and something to talk about. She’s started fixing up the base, she tells Okita, just in case they ever need it.

Why would they, Okita asks her, when they’ll be moving on soon, anyway?

Nobunaga just shrugs and says, “It’s something to do.”

It’s all Nobunaga does through the rainy week, venturing into the forest with her rifle, coming back with roughly cut planks, their splintered edges digging into her shoulders. Okita doesn’t know what Nobunaga’s doing with them, only that she’s nearby, if the sounds that resonate above the rolling thunder mean anything.

On a night when Okita’s in between bursts of coughing and the rain has tapered to a light drizzle, Nobunaga pokes her head through the cascade of droplets falling from the window and says, “Hey, I’m taking a bath. Wanna join me?”

So that’s what she’s been doing. All that work, just to take a bath? Well, this _ is _ Nobunaga- sitting idle is hardly in her blood. “How are you going to heat it?” Okita asks, rolling out from under her futon. “We don’t have any firewood.”

“We have me!” Nobunaga gestures to herself, her coat sopping wet and water dripping from the ends of her bangs into her eyes. Such a boast is so like Nobunaga that Okita can’t help but giggle, thumping a palm against her chest to clear the tension. “So is that a yes?”

“Better get to work then, Nobu.” Okita feels around for her sword, grasping it and planting it against the floor. “If it’s not hot by the time I get there, you’re sleeping outside for a week.”

“Is that supposed to be a challenge for you, or for me?” Nobunaga smirks, already retreating from the window. “Don’t take too long, or I’ll be done by the time you join me!”

Nobunaga darts away, vanishing from sight around the corner. Okita shakes her head, pulling herself upright with her katana. Her knees threaten to give, and her vision swims for a moment, the dimness of her room becoming a haze of moving grey. Okita waits for it to pass, measuring each breath until her vision’s cleared and she can take her first steps forward, shuffling to the doorway and gripping it to steady herself.

Nobunaga’s work on the base is evident from the moment Okita steps out into the hallway. She’d patched up the holes in the ceilings of the rooms that still stand, and the scorched portions of the bathhouse have been carefully cut away and replaced with new timber, the lopsided boards layered one over the other like plate mail. It’s hopelessly sloppy, and so charmingly Nobunaga.

Nobunaga is already submerged in the steaming water when Okita enters, her clothes folded neatly in a corner far from the bath. Okita follows suit, removing first her obi, then her kimono and hakama, placing her sword atop them with the hilt facing towards the bath. It’s just instinct; she’d done this when she was alive, too. You could never be sure when the enemy would attack, when you’d be called to fight.

“Warm enough for you?” Nobunaga speaks without opening her eyes, listening to the slosh of Okita entering the water.

“Too bad you can’t do this all the time,” Okita sighs.

“I could, but then you’d be too warm.” Nobunaga extends an arm expectantly, eyes fluttering open as Okita works her way over, colliding gently with her. Her arm moves around Okita’s shoulders, and Okita settles herself on the wooden step protruding from the side of the bath, resting against Nobunaga. “So it’s fine?”

“Perfect.”

For once, there’s a stillness between them that doesn’t involve Okita’s labored breathing or Nobunaga waiting for her to fall asleep. They’re content to sit in one another’s company, listening to the patter of the drizzling rain. It’s certainly the most relaxed that Okita can ever remember Nobunaga being, her shoulders slumped and her fingers tracing meaningless patterns along the ends of Okita’s hair.

It feels comfortable; it feels familiar. Okita doesn’t recall ever bathing with Nobunaga, but the sentiment is the same. It reminds her of days spent in a forest far from here, of tall grass licking at her ankles and their laughter joining the wind in dancing through the trees. Okita glances down at the fragment of Nobunaga’s Saint Graph, thrumming lightly against her chest. All the fighting they’d seen, and these are the memories that had survived; out of everything that Nobunaga has done, these are the things she’d chosen to hold on to.

Okita feels Nobunaga’s eyes upon her. She looks up, meeting her gaze, and a new wave of warmth cascades over her at the sight of the smile Nobunaga gives her. A shift of their bodies brings the fullness of Nobunaga’s fire against her skin, a distinct heat all its own, tingling up through her fingers to her cheeks. Nobunaga’s grin starts to morph into a smirk, and Okita stops it before it can change any further with a hasty press of lips to lips, catching Nobunaga entirely off guard.

Nobunaga does not yield, not even to Okita. She pushes back with the explosiveness of black powder and a hiss that sounds not unlike a fuse being lit, hands wrapping around Okita, reaching, grasping. They seize Okita’s shoulders and dig in, securing a hold, but only briefly: Okita doesn’t give ground easily, either. Her fingers entangle themselves blindly in Nobunaga’s hair, pulling a drawn out breath from her that subsides into a shudder, slowly rippling its way up through her body.

When Okita breaks away for air, that’s when Nobunaga takes the offensive. She’s relentless, teeth as much as gentle touches, every bit Demon King and patient lover. Her hand works its way into Okita’s hair, pauses, sinks back down to her neck.

“Nobu?” Okita shivers, head twitching from side to side. Nobunaga’s fingers trace the outline of a mark on her neck, a scar from a death unremembered, a vaguely circular patch of raised flesh that Okita’s never seen herself, but can hazard a guess as to what it is. She’d seen gunshot wounds before, on members of the Shinsengumi; she’d seen what remained of them when they healed. Okita’s first thoughts when she’d seen the girl in red with a rifle were of that scar, but the girl is _ Nobu_, and Nobu wouldn’t-

Nobunaga is shaking. Her hand quakes violently; she doesn’t meet Okita’s eyes as she pushes Okita’s hair to the side, leaning forward to see the scar for herself. It is and isn’t how she remembers it. The shape is right, but it’s pink and not brilliant red, and Okita is looking at her. Okita is looking at her, as she does whenever Nobunaga dreams of that night, daring her to pull the trigger. She can feel its weight in her hands, the dig of the rifle into her shoulder as it kicks, the jerk of her arm as she, too late, changes her mind.

“Nobu?” Okita is saying. She breaks away from their embrace, floats until she’s facing Nobunaga head on. Nobunaga doesn’t, can’t, look at anything but the water. “Are you okay?”

Yes. Just say it. Just lie. Nobunaga can’t bring herself to. She’s tired of lying to Okita, to herself.

This will be their end. Nobunaga’s only solace is the fact that she’s chosen this, and what a miniscule comfort that is.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Nobunaga says. There are ripples in the water. She presses on: backing out is something Nobunaga doesn’t do (or so she’d like to believe). “It’s about what you don’t remember.” The ripples are splashes; Okita is flinging herself to the opposite end of the pool. Nobunaga stays still, rigid, keeps speaking. “It has to do with why my Saint Graph is like this. And-”

Stinging, burning, mind-numbing pain. There’s a sword in her vision where there wasn’t, and its reflection in the water is clouded, distorted by spreading red. Nobunaga looks up and sees Okita drive the rest of her katana through her chest, pressing the blade in up to the hilt. She’d gone for the heart- a part of Nobunaga wants to laugh at that, but she’s already fading- Okita starts to pull the blade free, and Nobunaga sinks into the water.

The Archer Nobunaga wouldn’t have done it, Okita realizes. But Nobunaga was a Berserker too, and then an Avenger. Okita looks at her sword, dripping blood into the bath, and flings it aside in disgust. The water is saturating with blood; its scent rises with the steam and begins to fill the air, and Okita backs away from its source, clawing at her chest and throat, at the sudden prickling taking root like thorns against her insides. Okita coughs, stumbles to the edge, paints it red and dyes the water pink.

Nobunaga’s eyes are open beneath the surface, and blank. She isn’t breathing, that Okita is sure of- no bubbles breach the settling water, nor float from her still lips, and yet her body doesn’t dissolve. Okita doesn’t bother with Nobunaga’s Saint Graph, wouldn’t want a part of it even if she could rip a piece of it free. She waits, gasping into the quiet, watching the blood mix with the cooling water until it’s nearly the same pink as her hakama.

Okita doesn’t have to wait long. The water stirs just as the last of the steam wafts off it, Nobunaga’s arms shooting for the surface the rest of her body following soon after. Gone is the stab wound from Okita’s katana, a newly healed scar in its place. Nobunaga blinks at Okita, shaking her head as if in a daze before that wistful smile of hers creeps back into its place.

“You remember I can’t die, right?” she says.

“Because of what you did, right?” Okita wipes her mouth, straightening her back and supporting herself on the edge of the bath, unwilling to bend before Nobunaga. “You went and took everyone down, didn’t you? That’s why you’re cut up into eleven Saint Graphs, and why you can’t die. Who else did you shoot, Avenger?”

“My brother,” Nobunaga answers evenly. “Someone else from my time. Maybe someone in addition to that.”

“And me.” Okita stops to cough several times, and Nobunaga’s instinctive advance towards her is met with flashing blue eyes and Okita reaching in the direction of her sword.

“I didn’t want to kill you-”

“So you left me to die. You let me lose my memory.” Okita starts to back out of the water, retrieving her sword, her eyes never leaving Nobunaga. “And then you lied to me by omission. What else have you been keeping from me?”

Nobunaga’s silence is its own admission. Okita keeps her sword out as she dresses, haphazardly throwing her kimono on, not bothering with the rest. A wracking cough seizes her as she crouches to pick up her scabbard, putting her on her knees, and all Nobunaga can do is watch. Okita won’t accept her help, not now, maybe not ever again.

“The first time I saw you use your rifle, I thought you’d done this,” Okita says when it’s over, when she’s able to rise on shaking legs and glare at Nobunaga with as much willpower she can muster. “But then you saved me, and you helped me, so it couldn’t have been you. I believed that- and it was all a lie.” Okita’s hands tremble around her clothes, her sword; it’s taking everything she has to keep standing here in the cold, but she continues. “It was just your guilt that made you do this. Did you think I’d forgive you if I found out after all of this? Because I won’t forgive you, Nobunaga. I will never-”

Okita winces, sways. She catches herself before she can begin to fall, but Nobunaga has already moved towards her in that time, and Okita flings her sword up, its point still tinted red and aimed at Nobunaga.

“Stay away from me,” she whispers, the strength in her voice rapidly fading. “Or else we’ll see if you can’t die, after all.”

“If that’s what you want, I can try and find a way.”

“I wish you would.” Okita snarls and slams her katana into its scabbard with a forceful clatter of metal, storming off into the rain.

Nobunaga stands in the cooling water of the bath, listening to Okita’s coughing even long after she herself is gone, building in strength, ringing out from a distance it has no right to be heard from. Everything in her tells her to follow as much as it urges her to keep her distance, and muddling it all is the haze still clinging to Nobunaga’s mind, one she associates with the dark and the cold, this time filled with the breathtaking agony of feeling her chest stitching itself back together. Perhaps what she hears are the echoes of Okita’s coughing while Nobunaga was trying to come back, and that her condition hasn’t really worsened so quickly-

Nobunaga’s legs quiver, and she’s leaping out of the bath, clawing at the edge in her scramble to get out. She’d felt it pull at her, threatening to drag her back under into the inescapable black, from which the only release is waiting- but that’s not it. She’s back, she’s whole, and the water is just water, albeit clouded through with pink.

Okita’s coughing hasn’t subsided. Nobunaga dresses herself, steps out into the rain, takes the long way around the building so she won’t pass in front of Okita’s window or be heard on the walkways outside.

She sounds worse, Nobunaga realizes. From afar, she couldn’t hear the blood catching in Okita’s throat as she struggles to get it all out, fights for any amount of fresh air not tainted by the stench of it.

Nobunaga is almost to the hallway when she catches herself, hesitating as her boot meets the wooden steps. No, going to Okita now would just be adding another layer of hurt for Okita to deal with. So long as her presence might make things worse, Nobunaga won’t be going back; not tonight, perhaps not ever again.

The thought lodges itself in her throat, impossible to breathe past, dredging up hot liquid in her eyes.

After everything, she’s pushed Okita away again. But she had a right to know- Nobunaga gulps back her own doubts, feels them redouble and well up from within her, and she curls up on the steps to fight them back, trying to find some comfort in her own innate heat. None of it comes to her now- it’s as if it’s left her too, and Nobunaga is left with nothing but her thoughts and the dark clouds overhead, the only thing proving to herself that she’s still alive the needle-like prickling of raindrops on her skin.

* * *

Okita doesn’t see much of Nobunaga for the next week, or the week after that. She comes whenever Okita starts coughing, an occurrence growing more frequent by the day, and leaves as soon as she’s no longer needed. The cold bite of the winter wind is gone, but now the air hangs thick with rain or the promise of it. Okita endures it in the same way she always has- laid up in her futon, watching the sky cycling through a range of greys, and occasionally the rare pale blue.

But Nobunaga is nearby, Okita knows this for sure. The ghost of the girl in red is gone from her dreams, and now her presence reverberates on the planks outside, from the rifle shots that call through the trees. On those rare clear days, when Okita is strong enough to make it to the window, she finds herself watching instinctively for a flash of color- a stray cat, a rogue Heroic Spirit. She always catches herself, always chastises herself for worrying about Nobunaga. After all, Okita thinks bitterly, she’d done well for herself even after wiping out her old teams.

For her part, Nobunaga seems content to keep her distance. She stays in Okita’s room through fits of coughing accompanied by the constant roll of thunder, only otherwise visiting to bring more water, there to wipe away Okita’s blood on her sleeve and gone when Okita wakes up hours later to the sound of the rain making its return.

(Once, when Okita still has it in her to launch barbs at Nobunaga, she asks if Nobunaga does this because she’s already used to being covered in Okita’s blood. Nobunaga shrugs, feigns a smile, and disappears to draw more water from the well.)

And that doesn’t feel like Nobunaga. Nobunaga is rash, impatient, quick to action. She’s the type to come and go as she pleases, not according to the whims of Okita’s latent sickness. She freely takes what she wants, as ravenous as fire, and rarely gives back. The Nobunaga that lingers around the ruined base walks with the same strut, but slower, subdued by an unseen weight. Whatever burned within her has been smothered under the constant spring storms, and its remnants are what must be wandering the grounds, rekindling long enough to tend to Okita, then retreating into the wilderness.

The hills sway under the changing of the months, a ripple of pink sending fragile plum blossoms cascading in waves through Okita’s window, collecting on the windowsill and gathering in clumps just beyond the furthest reach of her fingertips. Her memories (no, Nobunaga’s) tell her that they belong in a river, floating along with the current, carried off and not once thought about again. These petals linger here, wasting away into nothing, and would share in the same fate as the Sakura Saber if it weren’t for Nobunaga coming through to sweep them out, the only water here to be found in the bucket that she brings with her. She helps Okita drink, and at Okita’s request, carries her to sit at the window, where she can suffuse her lungs with the breeze. “Do you know when the cherry blossoms will bloom?” she asks Nobunaga, and receives only a shrug in reply.

They don’t speak again for another week. Nobunaga’s returns fall into a pattern- once in the morning to see Okita to the window, once at night to bring her back, staying if the sound of Okita’s breathing is different from the constant, drawn-out wheeze it’s remained at for the past month.

“I don’t know why you’re still here,” is the next thing that Okita says to her. Nobunaga is settling her by the windowsill, wiping away the last smears of blood from her lips, and Okita only just resists the urge to swat at her hand. “If it’s because you promised Ryoma you’d look after me, you can leave. I’m pretty sure he’d prefer it, after what you told me.” As always, Nobunaga has nothing to say, responding with only a grimace that passes for a smile. “You’re not getting any magical energy staying here, and you’re still burning through it. Don’t tell me you’re planning to die here.”

That gets something out of Nobunaga- a weak chuckle, a “No, even if the view here _ is _pretty great.”

Nobunaga gets up to leave, and Okita swipes out, grabbing a handful of her coat. Nobunaga stares at her, eyes piercing, questioning. “Stay,” Okita orders, and tugs. Nobunaga lands against the tatami with a heavy thump, legs crossed awkwardly under her.

“Why did you do it?” Okita asks. Nobunaga doesn’t look at her, stares out blankly at the forest, where the first of the cherry blossom trees are beginning to flower. “It doesn’t make sense.” Okita works the words past the rawness of her throat and the tightness in her chest, what could be another attack pushing its way to the surface, or something worse. “You went over to the other team. I became your enemy. Why’d you leave me alive?”

“You were never my enemy.” Nobunaga’s hand moves to her pocket, pulls something out. Okita expects more candy, but it’s one of the stones they’d played with, a pawn, which Nobunaga rotates between her fingers. “You remember when we were on the same side, when we talked about why we were here?” Okita starts to nod, pitches forward. Her hands go up to her mouth; her shoulders shudder, and Nobunaga’s arm twitches instinctively towards her before settling at Okita’s side, offering her sleeve again. Okita takes it, drags it over her mouth, if only so Nobunaga will have to deal with it.

“You said you wanted to fight like you never had the chance to,” Nobunaga continues. “That you wanted a good death on the battlefield. I- It didn’t feel right to take that away from you.”

“Why did you even need to kill me in the first place?”

“The Grail said it needed eleven Saint Graphs to take me out of the fighting.”

“Including yourself?” Nobunaga shakes her head. “Then I was supposed to be the last-”

“The first one,” Nobunaga interrupts. “But I couldn’t do it.”

“Really?” Okita’s voice drips blood and scathing skepticism. “The Demon King, conqueror of Japan, didn’t get what she wanted because she wasn’t able to shoot someone from the enemy side in the back.”

Okita doesn’t expect Nobunaga to laugh, but she does, short and breathy. “I guess you could say it like that,” she admits.

“And why not?” Okita presses her. “Because you loved me?” Okita’s weight sinks against her elbows; her head droops, but her eyes blaze at Nobunaga with a fire that could match Nobunaga’s own Archer Graph. “Because it didn’t work, Nobunaga. You couldn’t let me die back there, but you can’t let me die at all, can you? That’s why you’ve been following me around all this time. You turned yourself into a monster not even the Grail will touch, and for what? Keeping me alive so I can lose more of myself?”

“I thought you were happy fighting with your team,” Okita hears Nobunaga say through the pounding in her head. She’d pushed too hard, let herself get too heated, and now the back of her tongue is slick with the taste of copper and she feels it in her chest, the imminent relapse into choking for air and having to rely on Nobunaga. “I wanted you to have what you couldn’t before.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Okita gasps out. “Now that I can’t fight-” She’d held it back for as long as she can; fresh blood fills her mouth, leaks out from the cracks between her fingers, sticks and weighs on her palm. She’s barely aware of Nobunaga trying to steady her, pulling her away from the window and back to her futon, settling her into it.

“Would you, if you still could?” asks Nobunaga. Okita glares up at her through watery eyes, tries to make out an answer. All she can do is manage a shake of her head, and even that’s too much; her throat erupts with unbearable heat, and the front of her kimono is soaked with it.

Through it, Okita still finds it in herself to reach for Nobunaga, grasping at something, her hand. All of her strength is barely enough to dig her fingers into Nobunaga’s wrist, holding her long enough for Okita to ask one final question.

“Is this how you meant for me to die?” she whispers, and lets go. Nobunaga reels, and Okita knows her point hit home. She’d told Nobunaga how she died, waiting for her last breaths to come, wishing for relief. Now, she’ll linger as long as there’s magical energy to keep her going, and even so long after the Grail has moved, Okita still doesn’t know how much of her reserve is still full. This is the living death she’d hated, visited upon her again, and by someone who had once been her closest friend.

“I’m sorry,” is all Nobunaga can manage, and they both know how little weight it carries. Nobunaga’s hand finds Okita’s again, and she doesn’t have it in her to jerk away, do anything more than muster a quivering protest of her fingers. Nobunaga squeezes her hand gently, lifts her eyes to the window and the hills, florid with blossoming trees and their falling petals. “Hey, Okita, listen- tomorrow’s gonna be better, okay? I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

“Don’t lie to me more, Nobunaga,” Okita murmurs. Nobunaga looks down, their eyes meeting briefly, and the weariness of Okita’s eyes says what Okita herself can’t- _ You’ve done enough. _

“I’m sorry,” Nobunaga repeats. She bends down, a hand meeting Okita’s shoulder, quickly shaken off by a shudder and a series of coughs. Okita pushes her away, curls up with her back to Nobunaga. A hand yanks the pillow further under her head, and Okita is soon sleeping, or feigning it- Nobunaga isn’t about to check.

She rises from her place by Okita’s futon, giving the room one last glance. A quick circuit around the wall to clear her head, and Nobunaga is back, katana slung from a belt that hasn’t hung around her hips for months. Okita is truly asleep now, having rolled onto her back, arms splayed wide and lips slightly parted.

Nobunaga was never one for goodbye kisses. Instead, she kneels by Okita’s futon, places something on the floor beside her. Then, she puts the hills behind her and runs, following the faint pulse of energy that beckons to her, welcoming her return.

* * *

Okita wakes up covered in petals. Odd- Nobunaga usually brushes them off when she checks in. The sun has long since set, and here’s another thing- there’s no snapping of fire from the courtyard, where Nobunaga usually rests, no rustling of leaves as Nobunaga walks the perimeter.

“Nobunaga?” Okita’s voice stretches into the night, trembling. It yields no answer, nor the sound of metal-clad feet tramping down the hill.

Nobunaga is out further in the forest, then. She has to be. For all of Nobunaga’s faults, Okita wants to imagine that Nobunaga wouldn’t condemn her to her worst fear; as strained as things had been, having Nobunaga around was better than waiting to die alone.

She’ll be back in the morning, Okita tells herself, closing her eyes again. If she hadn’t been driven away yet, why would she leave now?

She wouldn’t leave now.

She wouldn’t leave Okita.

She wouldn’t-

Because even after everything, in spite of everything, Nobunaga still-

(And Okita still-)

Sleep is usually a mercy. Tonight it roils with worry and storm clouds that leak into the sky, pouring rain down, erasing any sign of where Nobunaga may have been.

* * *

The darkness that Okita wakes into is indistinct, fuzzy. It takes a while for the swimming grey to form itself into shapes that Okita can recognize- a window, a wall, the rain drenching the trees outside.

None of the shapes offer her a greeting, or a smile.

Okita rolls out from under the covers, crawls to the window. From the brightness of the clouds above, it’s likely midday, or approaching it. Okita sits upright, stretches her arms to the ceiling, feels the tension in her back disappear with a series of pops. She yawns, taking in a long breath-

And her stomach growls.

Okita freezes, arms stiff above her head. When was the last time she’d eaten anything substantial; when had she needed to? Would there even be anything in the kitchen, if it hadn’t been burned to the ground long ago?

A jumble of color catches Okita’s eye as she turns back around. She approaches her futon on her knees, peering at the object beside it, her mind not comprehending it at first. Nobunaga’s collection of sugar candies sits next to her pillow in a glass flask sealed with cork, the bag it had been carried in and a pile of sugar dust beside it. Okita’s throat tightens, and two things race through her mind. Nobunaga would never have left this behind, not if something hadn’t forced her to.

But the follow-up to that thought, the catching of her breath in her lungs and the coughing until her vision goes white, never comes. Okita pounds the heel of her hand against her chest, breathes faster, coughs a few times for good measure.

Nothing.

Her stomach rumbles again, the aches of hunger urging Okita to her feet. She leaves her room with the flask in hand, wanders down the hall. She calls for Nobunaga, and her answer is the sound of the falling rain and the scrape of her sandals against the blackened stone pathways.

Half of the kitchen is still standing, and it looks like Nobunaga’s made adjustments to what remains. The ovens sit in a circle marked with rocks, shielded from the elements by a makeshift covering of wood held up by several logs, awkwardly stripped of bark and branches and hammered into the ground. Beyond that is the rest of the original building, the cabinets cracked open by the heat of the fires that had burned away at the rest of the complex, all of them stuffed full with halved and quartered pieces of wood.

At the very back, the door of the storage room sits ajar. Okita pokes her head through, rakes her eyes over empty shelves and four stacks of bags as tall as her waist. A quick tug at the closest one confirms what Okita suspects, and something more: rice, and what might be dried meat or fish. The motions are just repetition from here- find a pot, measure out the rice and water, start a fire in the circle and wait. There’s plenty of flint and tinder scattered over the counter, and in minutes Okita is sitting at the edge of the circle, staring at the flask and twirling it between her fingers.

With the way everything’s laid out, it’s almost as if Nobunaga’s just stepped out for a moment, and Okita would believe it if it weren’t for the candy she’d left behind. Okita works the stopper out from the neck of the flask and shakes a candy onto her hand, watches it wobble to a stop on her palm. Her hand shaking, she lifts it to her mouth and tips it in, just like she would medicine.

The sweet taste spreads over her tongue the second the candy hits it, sending Okita’s heart racing. There’s the forest, there’s Nobunaga grinning at her as she leaves on patrol; there’s the crunch of crushed sugar under her teeth as she takes two pieces at a time, indulging her hope that if she empties the bag quickly, maybe Nobunaga will come back sooner; there’s the weight of it, foreign in her hand, as she follows Ryoma and the others down the mountain.

All this time. Okita’s hand shakes around the neck of the flask. Nobunaga had attacked her, Nobunaga had kept it from her, had the audacity to try and be close to her again-

-would it really have been better if Nobunaga had brought it up at the start? Could Okita have ever trusted her after that?

But she’d also done the same, worse, maddened under the influence of the Grail, and who’s to say that Nobunaga hadn’t been exposed to some of the same? Those are, after all, the last memories Okita caught from her: being pulled down into a dark abyss, the excruciating sensation of something in her chest being torn to shreds and thrust back together, even Okita’s bouts of illness paling in comparison to this.

(And after so long fighting, even Okita had to admit she found it strange that she’d retained so many parts of her original Saint Graph, even if they were strangely warped together).

She doesn’t live with the weight of Nobunaga’s blood on her hands. Okita had forgotten about it even after it happened (lying to her even then, but for Okita’s sake, could she have faced Nobunaga knowing she’d run her through?). Holding her sword brings up memories of adrenaline in her blood and her sword weaving through her enemies, life as it should’ve been, the very thing Nobunaga was trying to preserve. If only she were here, so Okita could ask-

Something salty shatters Okita’s train of thought, diffuses over the sugar on her tongue. Okita looks up at the covering, searching for the leak that’s dripped water onto her cheeks, but finds none.

She wants to run out into the forest, find the trail that Nobunaga and the others were following, and go after them. Without the heaviness in her chest, she could, if only she knew where they’d gone. Ryoma hadn’t told her when he left, and Nobunaga had never mentioned it either.

All she knows is that her sickness is gone, and so is the steady stream of magical energy she’d grown used to feeling, almost like a second heartbeat. Okita lifts her hand to the pot, beginning to steam, and thrusts her hand into the curling cloud of white. It comes away raw and stinging, a feeling that doesn’t subside immediately, confirming what Okita had suspected since she’d first felt hunger gnawing at her stomach.

She’s human, and maybe that’s why Nobunaga’s gone. Heroic Spirits aren’t meant to mingle with humans- but, Okita thinks, a new and recurring pang taking root in her chest, couldn’t Nobunaga have at least said goodbye, would she even have tried to?

When the rice is done, when Okita is done scraping dirt onto the fire to put it out and is washing her hands of it in the rain, is when she realizes that Nobunaga _ had _ tried. Reassurances and a gentle touch are all she could have given- what else could she have done, knowing Okita’s desire not to be alone would outweigh whatever she felt towards Nobunaga, that the alternative was to break the rules in a way that would bring both Okita’s former team and enemies upon them?

(But how did Nobunaga _ know? _)

Okita pokes at the rice with some chopsticks she’d found in the kitchen, pushing it around her bowl. She has to eat, she tells herself. She’s human, and she needs it, but she can’t bring herself to. Instead, she shakes another candy out, throws it into her mouth, bites down until she can feel her teeth grinding against each other. She’s chasing that forest, the faintest hint of Nobunaga’s voice; now she wishes she hadn’t put out the fire, both for warmth and to listen for the rasp of Nobunaga’s laughter in it, or a reflection of her smile.

It’s not until Okita is back in her room, climbing back into her futon to rest off her residual soreness, that she remembers the part of Nobunaga’s Saint Graph she had. Okita presses her hands to her body, to her chest, looking for it, grasping frantically for something no longer there. She’s human; Nobunaga’s gone, and the last of her rests with the glass jar Okita nestled by Okita’s pillow, everything Nobunaga could have offered her, and still not enough.

* * *

Okita counts the days not with 5-stroke kanji cut into the wood of her room, but with the dwindling number of candies left in the flask. Okita limits herself to one a day, but sometimes she takes two; she has to. Those are the days she wakes up with Nobunaga’s name on her lips, grasping at the sheets beside her for a warmth long gone.

Why Okita’s still here is something even she hasn’t quite figured out herself. She tells herself it’s because this place has everything she needs- food, water, a warm room out of the cold. But more than that, there’s the question of why Nobunaga would have stocked this place to last if she didn’t intend for Okita to stay.

(The candies in the flask dip below the halfway point, and again beyond half of that.)

With that comes another question, the one of why Okita would go along with something Nobunaga had intended for her. That answer is found in the hills, in the paths worn in the grass by Okita’s repeated trips to wander between the trees and the storms of falling cherry blossoms that, for now, have taken the place of the spring rain. It’s simple, even if Okita has to wrestle with it, sitting against broad trunks for shade and plucking petals out of her hair. Nobunaga, like herself, had acted to protect something in the way they’d thought best. Okita’s happiness, the stability of a country. But even then, Okita hadn’t been able to see things through to the end- she’d left the battlefield, covered in blood more her own than of the enemy, and never returned. To Nobunaga’s credit, she’d stayed her course for as long as she could.

Now Okita is better, and Nobunaga is gone.

Not quite, Okita tries to convince herself. Nobunaga might come back. She’d meant for Okita to stay, with the repairs made to the buildings and the rice in the kitchen (and the candy, why else would she have left it?). She’s still here, in the scarf that Okita winds tightly around her face every morning, a remnant of her left in the woods and the stray bullet holes Okita will sometimes find in the trees.

Soon, there’s enough space at the bottom of the flask for the remaining candies to shake whenever Okita walks. She stops carrying it with her, packs it under her pillow, only taking it out every morning.

And then she reaches for it one day, her eyes still half-lidded and blinded with equal parts morning sun and unremembered dream, and her touch is answered by a solitary rattling.

Okita pulls her hand back, gazes at the sunlight refracting through the glass and the single candy rolling around the bottom. Her vision is blurring again, and not from fatigue. What had that high-pitched voice she so often chases in her dreams said? There won’t be any candy to give Nobunaga once she comes back, _ if _she comes back, because she’s taken so long-

Heat rises in Okita’s chest, gathers in her throat, behind her eyes. She knows she’d asked Nobunaga, once, if Nobunaga would go after her if she didn’t come back. She hadn’t thought of an answer to the reverse- because Nobunaga would never leave like that, had kept close to her through two teams and stayed nearby even after that, let herself be locked in a basement to be near Okita-

So how could she have _ left_?

Okita shakes the last candy out onto her hand, watches its points sparkle. “Why did you leave?” she asks into the quiet. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why couldn’t you have just left me alone?!”

A swirl of sudden emotions. She wants to leave, she wants to stay, she wants to see Nobunaga, she wishes she’d never see Nobunaga again. Okita gives her head a shake, blinks scalding water from her eyes and wipes it off with her scarf. Another pause, and the scarf flutters at the wall, torn and hurled from Okita’s neck. She casts her eyes around the room, searching, the rapid rise and fall of her chest drawing each second out into slowly lapsing agony.

The forge. Intact, unburned. Okita vaults her windowsill, the flask clenched in a fist. How could you leave, she thinks, how could you leave _ again_; the candy had been meant to last until Nobunaga got back, but Okita’s almost done and she isn’t here, and _ where are you, Nobunaga_?

A trembling hand finds flint among the polishing stones, tinder beneath the forge. A few sharp strikes sets it roaring, and Okita stands in front of it, shoulders shaking, watching the fire build and lick around the expired coals at its heart. It’s warm, it’s familiar, it’s not Nobunaga, because Nobunaga _ left _ her, and the only way Nobunaga could ever have been persuaded to do that is if she’d thought it was for the best.

“It isn’t!” Okita screams at the fire, as if she’ll get a response. In goes some of the dried up wood that’s been here for as long as Okita can remember. It catches instantly, black smoke billowing up from the vent, and it’s not enough. The heat is just that, it can never offer Okita an embrace, nor any comfort beyond what it simply is.

Something in her cracks, a shiver of her chest, a flaring of rage in her gut. Her other arm snaps forward, and a pale glimmer flashes in front of the fire. The empty flask smashes against the back of the forge, lands in several large chunks, their jagged edges standing tall above the licking flames. Another moment, and they start to crack beneath the immense heat at the forge’s center, splintering with high-pitched tinkles of surrender. Okita keeps staring at the remains of Nobunaga’s gift, searing the dancing of the fire into her mind, watching it dwindle and die like she would watch the cherry blossoms fall from her room, until all that’s left is a new bed of smoking ash and a ring of broken glass in the midst of it.

That’s it. Okita doesn’t so much think it as feel finality seeping through her body, the rush of anger and adrenaline tapering into a void that Okita doesn’t know how to fill. Her hand twitches, moves forward, pulls away. She’s had so much time to consider what she would’ve said to Nobunaga in parting, if only Nobunaga had given her the chance. All those thoughts fail her now, because she’d only ever imagined it in person- but somehow, this is fitting too; Nobunaga had perished in fire, and here are the last pieces of her memory in the ashes.

Slowly, Okita shuffles away. One step, another, until she stumbles on the dip where wood yields to grass. She’s back under the cloudy sky, watching the lingering smoke in the air catch the cherry blossoms descending on the wind, tumbling them over as it rises. She doesn’t linger after that- she turns her back to the forge, walking back into the courtyard, trying not to mind the scent of burnt wood clinging to her hakama and the tickle it’s left in her throat, unshielded by her abandoned scarf.

* * *

Okita awakens to a shift in the wind and the lingering sense that something is out of place. Her hand creeps towards her sword, long untouched by the side of her bed, fingers curling nervously around the hilt. She sits up, holding her breath still in her chest, ears straining to catch the hint of any sound that doesn’t belong in the forest.

In the next moment, it becomes obvious that Okita should’ve just looked around from the start. A flash of brilliant red catches her eyes, right outside her window: a lump of it by the forge, immobile, definitely not there where she’d been there the day before.

(Achingly familiar).

Okita is on her feet and outside in seconds, letting her momentum carry her around the corners of the buildings, staggering to a stop in the uneven mix of gravel and overgrown grass in front of the forge. Her sword sways in the air in front of her, drawn in half a second by her hair-trigger instinct, which is now giving her conflicting advice; do something, because this should be impossible, or run, because it is.

Just a few feet away from her, Nobunaga grunts in her sleep and rolls over, the edges of red cloak curled around her body flapping as they catch the wind.

Ah- Okita lowers her sword, lets the tension in her body escape through a heavy sigh. It’s just more of the same as before: dreams of a girl in red that she misses, only now she knows who, and why. Okita sheathes her katana, the guard of it clicking against the mouth of the scabbard, and turns away. She hadn’t planned to stay here for much longer, but if she’s going to be hallucinating Nobunaga, then she really needs to find somewhere else to go, and quickly.

“Okita?” a voice says behind her. Oh, she must really miss Nobunaga if the hallucinations are trying to talk to her now. “Hey, wait, Okita! Where are you going? Okita!”

Persistent, just like the real Nobunaga. Okita has to give herself points for realism. Against her better instincts, she looks back. Nobunaga is trailing after her, trying to get her cape back over her shoulders where it should be, and the sight of Nobunaga staggering around in her coat with her katana knocking against her knees is just so _ Nobunaga _ that Okita can’t stand it. It feels so real, and she wishes it could be, but it isn’t.

“This isn’t real,” Okita whispers. Confusion flickers over Nobunaga’s face, and Okita is stepping towards her, reaching for her, steadying herself for what will prove beyond a doubt that this isn’t real, that for all her hopes, Nobunaga is gone.

You can’t kiss a hallucination. Okita leans forward, presses her lips to Nobunaga’s, thinks that with this, her visions of Nobunaga will finally go quiet and leave her alone.

She’s met with a pressure against her mouth, unrelenting, as warm as the arms she imagines herself being held by one more time, warmer. The smell of stale ash and gunpowder fills her nostrils; a pair of hands wraps around hers, pulling her down, what Nobunaga always did so she could reach Okita without standing on her toes. No, this is too real for a hallucination, even if she knew Nobunaga this well- the fingers around her wrists are solid, and the heat of her breath tangible-

Okita opens her eyes, and Nobunaga is still there. She beams with all the force and life that Okita remembers her for, eyes twinkling under the sun; Nobunaga is _ here_, close enough to touch, to hold- why isn’t she doing that?

“Hey!” Nobunaga shouts as Okita flings herself into her, clinging to her shoulders. Okita hardly hears it over the pounding of her own heart in her ears and the hiccups in her breath. She grasps at Nobunaga’s back, revels in the firmness of it under her hands, and Nobunaga’s blurring- she’s crying, Okita’s crying, and she wipes her tears off on Nobunaga’s cape to a protest of, “I have to clean this manually now, you know!”

“Shut _ up_,” Okita pleads, her voice stuttering. Nobunaga’s arms settle around her waist, and a hand rubs gentle circles into her back.

“I just got back, and that’s the first thing you say to me?” Nobunaga sounds different now, her voice a little lower, a little frayed. Something hot seeps into the fabric of Okita’s kimono- oh, Nobunaga’s crying too, she realizes, and that makes her cling harder. “W-wait,” Nobunaga says, and Okita feels the stirring of something against her chest. “Wait,” Nobunaga repeats herself, laughter bubbling up from deep within her, “why are we crying?”

“I-” Because they can, because it’s the natural thing to do? Okita shakes her head, unable to answer. Nobunaga chuckles into her chest, and Okita can only hold on to her, both of them bracing one another up as Okita’s shoulders tremble and the dark patch on Nobunaga’s cape continues its slow spread.

“Hey, Okita-” Nobunaga begins, only to be cut short by Okita’s fingers on her lips, stilling them.

“Souji.”

“Ah- then, Souji-” Okita shudders, and Nobunaga falls silent, pressing the side of her face to Okita’s shoulder, the only sound that leaves her the slow murmur of Okita’s given name, striking a long-untouched chord in Okita’s chest. She clutches at the front of Nobunaga’s coat, refusing to let her go, her sobs slowly tapering off into the comfortable sort of silence that Okita never realized she’d missed until this very moment.

When Okita finally finds it in herself to try and speak again, she asks, “Are you going to leave again?”

“I’m back for good.” Nobunaga touches Okita’s cheek, brushing away the last of her tears with careful swipes of her fingers. “Hey, can we go sit down? I’m still kinda tired.”

“From what?” Okita lets Nobunaga go, and Nobunaga’s hand immediately latches on to hers, pulling her in the direction of the buildings.

“I had to get back here somehow!”

“Where did you even go?” Okita’s voice cracks under the strain of so many weeks spent alone, and Nobunaga must hear it, for she presses herself to Okita’s side, lets their shoulders bump together repeatedly.

“To fix things,” Nobunaga says. “I’ve been thinking of a way to do it for a while. The night we left, after our… after you said you were done fighting, I had to go try.”

“And why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t know if it would work. What if I’d told you, and it failed, or it killed me? You would’ve been stuck waiting here alone, and it’d be just like…”

“What did you do?” Okita tilts her head instinctively, tries to catch the shimmer of Nobunaga’s Saint Graph under the light before she remembers she wouldn’t be able to see it. Her movement is not unnoticed- Nobunaga smiles and squeezes her hand, and Okita squeezes back.

“What you said a while back got me thinking. I still had the pieces of eleven Saint Graphs with me. I didn’t know if it would be enough to get me anything if I reconnected with the Grail, but I had to try.” _ For you_, the smile on Nobunaga’s face seems to add. “So once you were asleep, I went and looked for where it went.”

“What did you ask for? For me to be better? For us to be human?”

“You,” Nobunaga says, not meeting Okita’s eyes. “I didn’t know if it would need the rest of me to make it happen.”

“Is that why you left me the candy?”

“Yeah- I didn’t know if you would stay around here, but I figured I had to try and make it back before you went off on your own, you know?” Nobunaga laughs, glances back at the forge. “Looks like I made it back just in time. Did you really have to go and smash it? I could’ve reused that!”

“I was-” Okita sighs. “I got angry with you.”

“And are you still?” Nobunaga stops where she is, surveying Okita cooly. This time, Okita doesn’t hesitate to bridge the distance between them and take Nobunaga up in her arms again, lips meeting the top of her head.

“No,” she says. “I forgive you, Nobu.” She feels the shift of Nobunaga’s chest, but Nobunaga doesn’t say anything- maybe she’s decided not to try her luck.

Instead, Nobunaga asks, “So, you still have some food around here? I’m kind of hungry.”

“You ate on your way back, right?”

“Well yeah, but I had a bit of a time limit hanging over me!” Nobunaga peers around the courtyard, a frown on her face. “I didn’t keep anything sweet here for you.”

“I’ve got something. Come on.”

Okita tugs on Nobunaga’s hand, guiding her down the hall towards her room. “So when you’re done here, I found a nice place for us to settle down,” Nobunaga says. “Small town on the coast, great view of the ocean. Somewhere out of the way. Maybe a few days’ walk from here- how’s that sound?”

“Only if you don’t build the place. Your construction skills are horrible.”

“I’m human now! I’d have to do it the hard way if I made anything!”

“Exactly why you shouldn’t.”

Okita pushes the door to her room open and heads for the window, motioning for Nobunaga to join her. She lifts the last piece of sugar candy from where it’s been sitting on the windowsill, pressing it up to Nobunaga’s mouth. “Here,” she says. “I saved you one.”

Nobunaga grins and bites down, but just short of Okita’s fingers, leaving half the candy still in her grasp. “Your half,” she mutters over the crunching of sugar under her teeth, leaning over and resting herself against Okita’s side. “No buts.”

“Can you get more?”

“I’m not a Heroic Spirit anymore, so I can’t get away with hiding myself and taking some.” Nobunaga’s face twists with distaste, her nose scrunching in a way that makes Okita giggle. “I’ll have to get a job.”

“Regret making yourself human yet?”

“I’ve thought about it!” Nobunaga’s eyes lock on to Okita’s, and a content smile spreads across her face. “But I don’t. I don’t think I ever will.”

Okita returns her smile, swallowing back the last of Nobunaga’s candy. She leans down, Nobunaga reaches up to cup her cheeks; Nobunaga loses her balance, and she brings Okita down with her, mouths colliding in a feverish tangle of heat and happiness. Hands clutch at shoulders, at each other, and the cherry blossom petals continue to swirl and fall, lifted from the swollen trees to drift gently through the window into the space around them, onto the fingers twined in Okita’s hair and Okita, smiling, descending to meet Nobunaga again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now that this is over I can tell you that this is literally a fanfic based off a TF2 fanfic. This is TF2 AU Okinobu.


End file.
